In his book, Frank Gallagher has captured all the drama and difficulties of operating in a violent war zone, post-Saddam Iraq. As head of my personal security detail, Mr. Gallagher vividly captures the tense and dangerous duty he and his dedicated colleagues from Blackwater carried out under the most trying circumstances. On a number of occasions, some of them revealed in this book, Gallagher and his team literally saved lives—mine and others—through their quick and professional reactions to danger. If you want a flavor of life in post-invasion Iraq, this is the book for you.
L. Paul Bremer III
Former Presidential Envoy to Iraq
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
Copyright © 2014 by Frank Gallagher and John M. Del Vecchio
Cover photograph by Christina Estrada Teczar
Cover design by Neil Alexander Heacox
ISBN: 978-1-4976-4397-0
Published by Charlie Fox Trot Books, LLC
www.charliefoxtrotbooks.com
Distributed by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
For My Mother, Florence Carroll Gallagher
Widowed in her early forties with five kids (three sons, two daughters), my mother never quit. She always set the bar high, encouraging us to do all that we could and to do it to the best of our abilities. She is also the type of person whom you never asked a question of if you were afraid to hear the answer. You could always expect complete, total, brutal honesty. Of course, this ended up with all three of her sons carrying guns for a living: John (retired after twenty-seven years in U.S. Army Special Forces), Jim (retired after twenty years with NYPD, thirteen years in narcotics), and me. Since 11 September 2001, she has had one or more sons continually working in some of the worst parts of the world. Sometimes more than one of us was away at the same time. Known to my Connecticut friends as “Babe” and to my “Frankwater” (the call sign that I would eventually be given in Iraq) friends as “Mama G,” she’s a legend.
A frequent conversation that she and I have had:
Mom: Frank, do you remember your eighth-grade graduation?
Me: Yes, Mom.
Mom: What did Sister Ann say about the parable of the talents?
Me: I remember.
Mom: Well, are you ever going to write that book?
Me: Yes, Mom.
Mom: Well, I hope you finish it before I die.
Me: Yes, Mom, I will.
Well, Mom, here it is! Thanks for all the support. I love you.
PRELUDE
After the United States invaded Iraq in 2003, and before power was turned over to the Iraqi Interim Government (IIG) the following June, American ambassador L. Paul Bremer III ran the country. As administrator of the Coalition Provisional Authority, Ambassador Bremer—essentially president, prime minister, Congress, the Supreme Court, and chancellor of the treasury—ruled by decree. From his first controversial orders banning the Ba’ath Party and dismantling Iraq’s previous military, insurgent groups threatened his life. The danger never slowed him down. Each day he made two, three, as many as eight trips outside the Green Zone into the violent, post-Saddam state to meet with members of the Iraqi Governing Council (IGC), to begin restructuring the economy, to assist in the development of a new constitution, to design the privatization of industry and national resources, or to prepare new departments and bureaus for the day the nation would again govern itself.
With such power, in such a hostile environment, the Secret Service soon declared him the most-threatened man in the world. Protecting him was my job. I had known him from earlier assignments, having spent eight years providing security for Dr. Henry Kissinger and for Ambassador Bremer when he was managing director of Kissinger and Associates.
But this was different. No civilian-led protective security detail (PSD) had ever been charged with shielding a titular head of state. Daily I got intelligence briefs basically saying, “Uh … not sure how to tell you this, but today you are all going to die.”
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up to the beginning. This is my story, and the story of how a group of dedicated protection professionals managed to do something they never thought possible. My name is Frank Gallagher, and I was the agent-in-charge of The Bremer Detail.
Thursday, 21 July 2003
I woke at 0800 and began my daily coffee intake. I fed the dogs, read the newspaper, contemplated what time I would head to the gym. It was a bright summer morning. After working nearly nonstop for nine years, I was taking a few months off to recharge my batteries. My wife, Kim, was upstairs cleaning; and our daughters, Kelli, twenty, and Katherine, fourteen, were still asleep. Ah, youth! What time I would hit the gym was just about the toughest decision I planned to make all day. Let’s see—go at 1400? 1500?
I could hear Kim vacuuming. As a school administrator she too had a summer break. The novelty of my being home had not yet worn off. She was used to the prolonged absences that were always a part of my work. The phone rang. When I was home, Kim was accustomed to the roughly forty calls I would get each day from my brothers in the executive protection world. She knew many of them by their voices. I heard her switch off the vacuum and answer. By her tone I guessed it was a voice she did not recognize. This was confirmed when she called down without mentioning a name.
I picked up the kitchen phone. “Hello.”
“Frank? This is Brian from Blackwater.” The voice was friendly yet terse. “We have an opening for a guy to go to Iraq and help with the security for Ambassador Bremer. You interested?”
It took a few seconds for it to register. My heart began to race. I didn’t realize how ready I was, or how much I needed such a call. I had been idle for six weeks and growing antsier by the day. I missed being busy. “Sure,” I answered. “When?”
“We’ll need you to come down here to North Carolina, knock the rust off your weapons skills, take a physical fitness test. Then we’d like you to deploy in August.”
“I’m in,” I said. “When do you want me down there?”
“How about ten days.”
“Cool. See you then.”
Adrenaline kicked in. I took a deep breath, high-fived myself. My fists jabbed the air. Blackwater, regarded as the most prestigious outfit among top security professionals, had just extended me an offer. I poured myself another cup of coffee. My mind was racing. How would I tell Kim and the kids?
At this stage of my career I never thought I’d be going to a war zone. In my Marine Corps days in the ’80s, I went to Cuba, Africa, the Persian Gulf, and all over Europe, but, like many of my Recon brothers, never during wartime. We prepared, we went on deployments, we risked our lives during training and got as good as one could get, but we never got to play in the big game. Politics is tough! That ate at me, us. We had done our jobs, but time and circumstances had denied us the opportunity to fight for our country. It was hard to live with.
In the high-end security world the mystique of Blackwater attracted a lot of protection specialists. Many tried out, but only a few made the cut. To even be considered was an ego boost and a big-time thrill.
And the opportunity for me to work again with Ambassador Bremer was compelling. I had worked extensively with him during my years as director of security for former U.S. Secretary of State Henry A. Kissinger. Kissinger’s geopolitical consulting firm was composed of elite specialists. Ambassador Bremer, former ambassador-at-large for counterterrorism and ambassador to the Netherlands, was a close colleague of Dr. Kissinger, and a key executive in the firm. He was extremely bright, disciplined, and had a great sense of humor.
The combination of the war zone, Blackwater, and Ambassador Bremer was simply an opportunity too good to pass up. So much had happened in the preceding two years—starting with the terror attacks on the World Trade Center. For me, this was also the culmination of those events. As the image of me heading to Iraq took hold my body and mind electrified. This was gonna be interesting. Little did I know.
11 September 2001, elicits strong emotions. Some mourn the loss of a single life; others grieve for the hundreds of courageous men and women who were simply doing their job that crisp, clear morning. For many it is the sheer magnitude of more than three thousand deaths. The attacks didn’t happen in some foreign land whose name most Americans can’t spell and can’t find on a map. They happened here. In our own backyard! In our country!
Within hours of the fireballs and crumbling towers the feeling of being untouchable, regardless of what was happening in far-off corners of the world, was reduced to rubble. The safety and security to which an entire generation had grown accustomed, even perhaps entitled, was stripped away, replaced to varying degrees by fear, anger, and a vocal demand for retribution.
As a former Recon Marine I readily admit retribution was something I took for granted. Not that I had any notion it would be mine to dispense. Those days had long passed, and, quite honestly, my chosen career placed a significant emphasis on avoiding the sort of risks that are commonplace on the battlefield. But I did not doubt retribution would be dispensed in response to the attacks, nor that when the time was right that we would do it. Our armed forces are the best in the world; the men and women who serve in them are the most capable on the planet. Period. End of story.
I’m ill equipped to debate the decisions that were made at the time by President Bush. It was his responsibility to make the decisions he felt were in the best interests of the nation. What I will say is I wholeheartedly supported them. More important, I’m glad they were his to make, not mine.
Soon after the September 11 attacks, the United States invaded Afghanistan, followed shortly thereafter by the invasion of Iraq. We were now fighting two wars in two countries, a scenario around which our entire military strategy was based. As often happens in the real world, the two-war doctrine barely survived first contact. It quickly became apparent we simply weren’t prepared for the complexities of fighting simultaneous asymmetrical wars. These are conflicts where a small, poorly organized or poorly equipped adversary has an advantage over more conventional forces due to terrain, population, and initiative. The generals found holes in our preparation that needed filling. That’s where guys like me came in—but again I’m getting ahead of myself.
I can’t say I was surprised at how events unfolded, but I found it maddeningly frustrating. I had grown up in a military unit where the typical operating assumption was the adversary, even if ill equipped, ill trained, and poorly led, would have the tactical advantage of operating on his own turf. In my civilian career as a protection specialist (more commonly referred to as a bodyguard) I recognized that regardless of the resources you have at your disposal, the bad guy has the advantage of deciding when and how to attack. We play defense and try to make it as tough as possible for them to succeed. Someone far smarter than me once wrote “we hold these truths to be self-evident,” and in my little slice of the world the truths that were self-evident tended to be both simple and straightforward. Right at the top of that list was the fact that, regardless of how much money, how many guns, or how many lawyers you have, a small handful of bad guys armed with superior knowledge of the terrain, enough time to plan, and a little ingenuity will, given the opportunity, kick your ass around the block every day of the week and twice on Sundays. And they’re more than happy to do so without the benefit of shiny new, high-tech weaponry, slick tactical clothing, or cool sunglasses. From the outside looking in, there was little doubt the U.S. military was learning this lesson the hard way; and, like most lessons learned the hard way, it was painful, embarrassing, and costly.
But learn they did. It didn’t take long for forward-thinking military leaders to understand the challenges they faced and to come up with viable solutions. They recognized that the decades of recruiting and investing in smarter, more capable troops could and would only pay dividends if these troops could be brought to bear on the enemy. This meant freeing up troops from mundane, behind-the-scenes tasks that drive the military’s war machine; and rethinking how units could best utilize their most precious resource—their people. Although I am not sure what the ratio is these days, back when I served it was generally accepted that for every Marine, soldier, airman, and sailor serving in a combat role, seventeen were serving in support. So rethinking and reshaping how we go to war was by no means a small undertaking.
As the military adapted to the new reality in Afghanistan and Iraq, it recognized the urgent need to fill all the vacant positions created by moving troops to more critical, combat-oriented missions. It also recognized that the traditional fallback plan, the use of Reserve and National Guard troops to fill those voids, wasn’t going to work because entire Reserve and Guard units were already being prepped for deployment and would need all their personnel to perform their missions. Recruiting and training more people—a costly, time-consuming endeavor in the best of times—wasn’t a viable option, either. But somewhere, someone recognized that there were, in fact, a substantial number of people in the private sector who had the skill sets needed to fill those positions. In fact, many of these folks had developed those skills while serving in the military. When all was said and done, the folks who matter recognized it would be more timely and cost-effective to contract the resources they needed as opposed to taking the traditional route of recruiting and training organic resources.
So, for the first time ever, this country saw the wide-scale deployment of civilian contractors working in a war zone quite literally alongside the military, performing jobs traditionally performed by military personnel. These contractors included cooks, truck drivers, administrative assistants, advisors, and, of course, security specialists. Regardless of their job, and not unlike the folks who Tom Brokaw wrote about in his bestselling book The Greatest Generation, every single one of these people was willing to step up, make tremendous sacrifices, and assume tremendous risks despite having no retirement benefits, limited health coverage, absolutely no guarantees of continued employment, no unions to negotiate on their behalf for better working conditions, or most of the other things the typical American worker takes for granted. And in doing so, these civilians enabled the military to function more efficiently and effectively.
Thousands of civilian contractors have been injured or killed, yet when all was said and done there were no celebrations, no parades when they came home. Hell, they were lucky to get a paragraph in the local newspaper. More often they were criticized or demonized by people who knew nothing about what they had done or the sacrifices they had made. In my mind the overwhelming majority of these people are heroes in the same sense that the military people they served besides are heroes. No one forced them to go somewhere or do something they did not want to. They went because they felt a duty to this country. They knew the risks and despite them, because they believed they could contribute something to the effort, they chose to put themselves in harm’s way.
Don’t get me wrong. Patriotism certainly wasn’t the only factor that played into the decision made by many. The pay was good and the promise of adventure was appealing. Now I recognize that to the average person this line of thinking is, at best, foreign, perhaps bizarre. “Average” people—those who make up more than 90 percent of the population—go through life attempting to avoid confrontation at just about every opportunity and at almost any cost. A certain segment of the population counts on this. They are the criminals and evildoers, and they are quick to prey on those who are willing to take abuse, accept injustice, or just look the other way in order to avoid confrontation. I can’t speak for the cooks, administrative assistants, or truck drivers, but I can tell you that security contractors tend to fall into a third category—one made up of the 1 percent of the population willing to stand up to criminals and others who prey on the innocent. In a different place and time they were cops, soldiers, and “protection specialists” or in layperson’s terms, bodyguards. They were motivated by all those things already mentioned—patriotism, adventure, a decent paycheck—but most of all they were motivated by the understanding that most people in the world need protection, and that they are the ones who can provide it.
I’m not sure how psychiatrists, psychologists, politicians, or pundits might view this profession today, but I do know that for thousands of years those who chose to protect others, to serve as bodyguards, were viewed honorably and treated with respect. It wasn’t until professional protectors answered the call to ply their trade in a war zone that they became looked down upon and were called mercenaries and thugs. I am not sure how the hell that happened, but I can tell you that it couldn’t be further from the truth. I say this because I have been a protection specialist for more than twenty years and have worked as a security contractor.
I have more than a few reasons for writing this book, some of which are easy to articulate, others not so much. One reason is the desire to provide a realistic portrayal of the work that security contractors did, day in and day out, in Iraq. Not some sensationalized story, but the unvarnished truth. Another reason is a desire to provide some insight into the courage and sacrifice that many of those contractors made to accomplish the extraordinarily difficult and very noble mission of keeping others alive in a country torn apart by war, by decades of strife wrought by an evil dictator, and by a general distrust of Western governments. But mostly I am writing this book to dispel the myths and misconceptions about who these security contractors were. Unlike the rest of the world I know them firsthand. I know them to be hardworking men trying to earn an honest living in the face of tremendous personal risk, confusing and conflicting directives, and competing political agendas.
Right up front I will tell you that the company I worked for was Blackwater, a company that was ultimately brought down by the tragic events that occurred on 16 September 2007, in Nisoor Square, a place few Americans outside of Iraq even knew existed. To be clear on this, I was not in Nisoor Square that day, nor did I know any of the contractors involved in what would become one of the most highly publicized, controversial events involving security contractors. For those who may not be familiar with the incident, on that day a Blackwater convoy was moving through the square when it reported taking fire and, in turn, fired back. By the time the media coverage died down, the contractors, and the company itself, stood accused of killing seventeen innocent Iraqi men, women, and children, Blackwater’s reputation was in tatters, and criminal charges were brought against some of members of the team. At the time I write this one man pled guilty to charges of manslaughter and agreed to testify against other members of the team. He is in prison. The charges against the others were initially dropped, but the men were once again charged in early 2014 and are expected to go to trail in June 2014. Blackwater no longer exists, and security contractors are generally painted with a broad brush of contempt, even by some in the protection profession.
In 2003, when I received my phone call, Blackwater was in its infancy. The idea of using private security contractors to protect American officials was nascent. I believe Erik Prince, founder of Blackwater, should be applauded for his willingness to step up and take the monumental risk of supporting the U.S. military and diplomatic efforts in Iraq and Afghanistan. At the time he accepted this first-of-its-kind contract to protect the highest-ranking U.S. official in a war zone, the rewards and risks were crystal clear: Succeed in keeping Ambassador Bremer alive, and your company will have accomplished something no private company has ever achieved before. However, if Bremer gets killed, your company will serve as a poster child for those who believe a private company cannot possibly provide the level of protection required to safeguard government officials. Oh, and by the way, your company will, in all likelihood, never receive another government contract.
But again, let me back up. This is my story and the story of how a group of dedicated protection professionals managed to do something that they themselves never thought possible.
21 July 2003
As I hung up and reached for my coffee, I heard Kim turn off the vacuum. She walked into the kitchen and asked who called. Deep breath: I told her it was Blackwater asking me if I wanted to work, and that I would be leaving for Iraq in three weeks. She clamped her teeth and did not say a word, obviously not overjoyed with the idea. Neither were my daughters (one in high school, one in college) when I told them. I explained it was only for thirty days, so it would be easy. I really believed this when I said it.
For the majority of my executive protection career I have kept well-known, recognizable figures safe. I have always had an excellent sense of the who, the where, and the when of potential problems. I’ve worked in forty-two different countries but never in a war zone environment. And I always came back safe. Africa, the Middle East, Europe, Asia—most spots were civilized, no spot had thousands of folks trying to kill my protectee. I expected Iraq to be similar. Boy, was I naïve as hell!
At age forty-four I was not in the same shape I was back when I was a Recon Marine. From talking to some of my friends, I knew Blackwater’s physical fitness test would include a 1.5 mile run and some pull-ups. The pull-ups would be easy. The run? Yeah, not so much. I knew, too, I would have to get to the shooting range and put some holes in some targets to make sure I did not embarrass myself. So I made the decision to increase the tempo of my workouts and actually start running. I hate running.
In 2003 Blackwater, virtually unknown to the public, had a mystique of excellence and elitism among security specialists; and a reputation for hiring only the “best of the best.” I was honored and nervous. I knew my friend Brutus had put my name in for consideration, and the last thing I wanted to do was make him look bad. In our world, if you recommend someone and he doesn’t work out, you run the risk of getting fired for making a bad recommendation. Brutus was a great friend and a brother Recon Marine, and I certainly didn’t want to sully his reputation. We had worked together for Dr. Kissinger for five years, and I knew Brutus thought I could do it or he would not have risked the recommendation. He had never bullshitted me.
I called Brutus and gave him the news. He had been working in Iraq for Blackwater for several months on a different project, and he cautioned me that the selection process was no joke. He gave me the limited insight he had about the upcoming project. We talked about the heat and the operations that were going on over there in the “sandbox.” Iraq at this time was not going through the troubles that would soon begin. Coalition forces had been there for four months. The Iraqis still weren’t quite sure what to expect as we attempted to convert the country from Saddam Hussein’s dictatorship to a functioning democracy. The coalition was extremely hopeful the transition would be relatively painless. Insurgent attacks were not yet an everyday occurrence. This would soon change.
For the time being Americans seemed to be regarded as semiheroes for ousting Saddam, and there was general goodwill toward us. Brutus wished me good luck and gave me a list of things he thought would make my life somewhat easier. There were many things that could be purchased in Baghdad, but the main items that were always in short supply included: soap, deodorant, shoelaces, extra sunglasses, watch batteries, and Febreze. The Febreze was a key and essential part of the equipment load as the heat and all too frequent water outages could cause a man and his equipment to smell worse than the local dump. I couldn’t admit it to him because of bro-rules, but I was nervous as hell. We laughed and I told him I would see him soon. At least, I hoped I would.
Trying out for anything has always been disconcerting to me. I knew from word of mouth that Blackwater was mainly staffed by former SEALs who had extensive special operations experience. Most had considerable time with DEVGRU (SEAL Team 6). I was a former Recon Marine, had been out for almost twenty years, and had been doing executive protection for most of that time—meaning suits and ties and flying around on private jets. No body armor, no rifles. I knew Brutus had navigated through the Blackwater on-boarding process so I felt confident that, despite the sometimes intense interservice rivalry between the Recon guys and the SEALs, the SEAL team guys would give me a fair chance. I also knew they had called me because of my previous relationship with Ambassador Bremer. Blackwater was relatively new to the executive protection game, so I had that going for me.
Later that same afternoon I went to the gun store and bought a couple hundred rounds of ammo, then went to the range. The shooting went well, but I was fully aware of the fact that the guys who would be evaluating me were going to be shit hot shooters. I made a mental note that I would need at least a few more range sessions before I felt comfortable with my skill level. My accuracy was good, but my speed was not. Muscle memory would need to be reinvigorated. One thing to note about guys like us—former military, former cops, or as we say to each other “former action guys” (FAGs for short)—is we know and readily acknowledge where our weaknesses lie, and we actually try to get them up to par before a tryout. Yes, we work at it. Yes, we practice. Shooting is a perishable skill. If you don’t practice, you don’t shoot well. I didn’t have access to an M-4 rifle so I was going to have to fire the thing cold and hope my hand-eye coordination would translate from handguns and my muscle memory for a carbine would come back quickly.
After addressing the weapons part of the tryout equation, I turned my attention to the run. One and a half miles in twelve minutes. Back in the day most of us could probably walk this fast, but this was not back in the day. Onslow Beach, the home of 2d Recon Battalion, was a distant memory. Even there, running had been a challenge for me. The USMC physical fitness test has a three-mile run, and to get maximum points the course had to be covered in eighteen minutes or less. My best time ever had been 19:10, and that had been at the end of Amphibious Reconnaissance School (ARS) when I was in my all-time peak condition. ARS was the school that Marines had to complete to get the military occupation specialty of 0321—Reconnaissance Man. I was lucky enough to go through the very first ARS course. It combined the most challenging physical aspects of U.S. Army Ranger School with the SEALs’ Basic Underwater Demolition School (BUDS). Even after ARS, I could not max the run.
So I took my car out and mapped a 1.5-mile course around my neighborhood. I figured within ten days I should certainly regain some semblance of running shape. Next it was off to the running store to get a pair of shoes that would be up to the task. Apparently running shoes had evolved into highly specialized designs tailored to weight, stride length, and so on. At my weight, about 210, I was considered a Clydesdale not a thoroughbred and was thus directed toward a small rear corner of the store where a running shoe guru shepherded me through my purchase. And, of course, I bought some decent socks. A man has got to have decent socks.
I went home, put on my new shoes, and headed out the door. Apparently at age forty-four you really should stretch a bit before running for the first time in ten years. But, in my mind, tigers don’t stretch; we just run out and kill things. I made it almost a hundred yards before I felt an intense pain shooting up my left leg. I (barely) hobbled back to the house, fully convinced I had torn my Achilles tendon. I made it to the kitchen and immediately started icing the injured area. It hurt like hell! This was not good.
Kim got home from the beach, saw the ice pack on my leg and the bottle of Motrin on the table, and casually asked what I had done. She was somewhat used to the periodic injuries her husband got because he refused to admit he was not twenty-one anymore. Trying to be stoic, I asked her if she would drive me to the orthopedic surgeon so I could figure out exactly how badly I was hurt. She picked up her keys and off we went. I was in extreme pain but was trying to be flippant. If she had not been there, I almost certainly would not have been able to drive myself. As we drove, a hundred scenarios played out in my mind. Complete tear. Rupture. Blackwater. Iraq. Let Brutus down. What was I going to do? How could this have happen? WTF?
The doctor examined it, took some x-rays, said I had only sprained, not torn, my Achilles.
Good. I asked about recovery time and chances for reinjuring it. He said this type of sprain usually took about two months to heal. TWO MONTHS????! I had nine days before the running and shooting events were to take place. He said to rest it, ice it, stay off it, and if I wanted, I could see a physical therapist. After I explained my upcoming deployment and schedule, he gave me some heavy-duty anti-inflammatories, made some calls, and got me into a physical therapist later that afternoon. I was beside myself with doubts.
The physical therapist started immediately with electrical stimulation and massage. He repeated the “rest, ice, elevation, and stay off it” advice. Yeah, like there was any chance this was going to happen! Instead of running I decided the next best thing was to try walking as far and as fast as I could. Kim was supportive and came with me. She only called me a pussy a few times. It was all I could do not to think about the position I found myself in. My ankle and leg hurt like hell.
I continued the meds and PT every day and started to feel a little better, but the specter of the run was hanging over my head like the grim reaper. And more than a few people thought the injury was a good thing as it would likely keep me from going through with the deployment. These folks clearly did not know me as well as they thought they did. My sole driver was my intention to go, to try out and do the absolute best I was capable of doing. Failure was not an option. Still, I must confess to a nagging worry that I would struggle, that I would not be able to force my way through the pain.
Blackwater called and set up my travel plans. I didn’t mention the injury. We talked about the pay and the length of the contract. They wanted me to go for thirty days and were going to pay me $600 a day. I quickly did the math, thought 18K was a ton of money, and honestly figured it would be a cakewalk. Study long, study wrong.
Blackwater’s original contract to keep Ambassador Bremer safe was to supply two men to supplement a protection team supplied by the U.S. Army’s Criminal Investigative Division. I found this odd: two civilian contractors working alongside, for, and with regular U.S. Army personnel. But who was I to question anything? I would go and do the best I could and be home in a month. The whole thing was simply overwhelming. These were the days long before the contracting craze hit the sandbox. Blackwater had two guys with the ambassador and another thirty (The Dirty 30) working on another project. They had a total of thirty-two elite guys there, truly a far cry from the eventual thousands of contractors who would be working there a few years later. (By early 2005 Blackwater alone had approximately one thousand contractors in Iraq.)
Moyock, NC
The day arrived for me to head down to Moyock, North Carolina, for the big events—two days of nerve-wracking man tests. As luck would have it, somehow, in my state of confusion over the injury and the rehab, I screwed up the date. I thought I was flying on Monday. The plane ticket they sent was for Sunday. Imagine my horror when the phone rang Monday morning and Susan M. asked me if I had changed my mind about coming down. I had no idea what she was talking about. I quickly packed my bags, jumped in my car, and began the ten-hour drive to Moyock. The entire drive now consisted of me kicking myself in the ass for (a) not reading the itinerary that had been sent; (b) my injury; and (c) the great first impression I must have been making by proving reading comprehension was apparently not a strong part of my intellectual repertoire. I was beside myself. Ten hours is a long time to question and punish one’s self.
I got there after dark. Following the instructions I had been given, I punched in the access control numbers to the main entrance gate and headed to the bunkhouse to try to get some sleep … like that was even remotely possible. The bunkhouse was half filled with folks there for different training courses. Like all men, we grunted acknowledgments but never exchanged any conversation. My room consisted of two bunk beds and a desk. Fortunately I was the only one in the room. I set my alarm for 0600 and tried to sleep. Brutus called from the sandbox, and I explained my fuckup to him and he laughed and reminded me that stuff like this happens with the SEALs all the time and not to sweat it. Easier said than done.
The next morning I went to the chow hall and had a couple of cups of coffee while I was trying to figure out who was who and where I should I go. August in NC is the closest thing to Africa-hot I have ever experienced. The flashbacks to Camp Lejeune and Onslow Beach were surreal. It was 90 degrees and 90 percent humidity. It was HOT. Truly uncomfortable.
I finally met up with Brian B and Susan M and they explained the day’s events. I would head to the range with Steve Babs (former SEAL and weapons instructor) and shoot the Glock pistol that I was to be issued in Iraq, and an M-4 rifle. Did I say it was hot? I was already sweating through my clothes. Steve Babs and I went to the armory and grabbed a couple of pistols and rifles and several thousand rounds of ammo. Several thousand! I thought at first he was trying to intimidate me. Who shoots this much ammo in one day? Blackwater, that’s who.
Babs was around thirty and in great shape. I was forty-four and in not-so-great shape. I put on the body armor (thirty pounds or so), the Glock pistol and spare magazines, and six magazines of M-4 ammunition. We went through a series of pistol fundamentals and then began shooting. And we shot, and we shot, and we shot, and we shot. From the holster. From a knee. From a prone position. From behind barricades. Did I say it was hot? I was drenched in sweat. Steve had a lot of water, and I drank as much as I could. Fainting would not have been a good thing. We then started moving and shooting. And running and shooting. My hands were sore from loading magazines. Then we shot moving targets. Then we shot more targets. And so it went until lunchtime.
After lunch, we picked up with the M-4. First the fundamentals and the basics. Once again, with about forty pounds of gear attached to my frame, we began shooting. From the standing position, from a knee, from a prone position. Behind barricades. Did I mention the heat? By now it was 100 degrees and we were in the sun. I was not sure if I’d make it through the afternoon. Finally around 1630 hours Babs called it a day. I must have done okay as he said he would see me tomorrow at the armory at 0800. I crawled back to the bunkhouse. My leg was on fire. My ass was chapped from the sweat that had dripped down my ass crack all day. My whole body was drained. My hands were bleeding from the thousands of rounds we had loaded. Brutus had been correct: Blackwater did not fuck around when it came to training.
The next morning the training continued. We moved on to rifle and pistol drills. We shot, and we shot, and we shot. Around 1000 hours Brian B came over and asked me to come to the office and talk with B-Town, who had been one of the first two guys on The Bremer Detail in Iraq. B-Town was a retired SEAL who had served over twenty years in the Teams. He explained how the detail was being run, and what I could expect. At first I thought he was kidding, but I quickly realized this was going to be way more real, and far more dangerous, than my experiences doing protection stateside. B-Town explained the group dynamics. We would not be working with Special Forces–caliber folks as I had hoped. The majority of the current detail was made up of reservists who had been called to active duty, and B-Town said they were not pleased to be working with contractors. Great, I thought. B-Town talked about the motorcade convoys and the advances, and the living conditions and the heat. It really was a great brief and I will be eternally grateful for his honesty.
Back to the range where Steve Babs continued to torture me with more and more complex shooting drills. My fingers were raw and bleeding from the nonstop reloading, but I said nothing and kept going. Finally, lunchtime came. I drank as much Gatorade as I could and crawled back to the bunkhouse to ice my leg. The damn run was scheduled for the next morning and, quite honestly, the shooting was sapping my energy levels.
Again back to the range. We shot for about an hour when Steve called a time-out. As we were walking toward the targets to examine them Babs pointed at a dragonfly buzzing around about seven yards in front of us. He laughed and said watch this. He drew his pistol and shot the dragonfly while it was in the air moving away from us and to the left—a truly awesome display of pistol marksmanship. The guy could shoot.
We talked about what we had done over the last few days, and he said he was satisfied and I was “good to go.” We went to see Brian B and Babs gave me the thumbs-up. I was ecstatic. It was the most intense shooting session I had ever been through. Now only the run lurked in the back of my mind.
Brian B talked about the deployment dates. I read and signed the contract. We talked about life insurance, what would happen if we got involved in a shooting, and so on. I gave them my passport so they could get me a visa for Kuwait. Kuwait was the mustering site for folks heading to Iraq. They gave me a departure date and we shook hands. I walked out of the office with Babs and he took me to the spot where they issued gear. I got some shirts, trousers. He asked if I had any other questions and I said no. We shook hands and he wished me luck. He said it was over and to have a good trip home. I hesitated for a second and then asked about the physical fitness test. He said not to worry about it as the range had tested all he had needed to see. He said again I was “good to go.” I thanked the sweet little baby Jesus in my own way. I grabbed my new “cool guy” gear and went back to the bunkhouse to pack my shit and escape before anybody could change their minds. I did not relax until I hit Delaware.
The drive home was, to say the least, interesting. The Northeast power grid had failed and a massive outage blacked out New York and the New England states. Traffic lights were out; toll booths and gas stations were closed. As I cruised through Delaware I heard radio reports of what was coming, so I gassed up and plotted how I could best get to Connecticut. I crossed into New Jersey. The drive became treacherous. About forty miles into the Garden State I began a laborious trek on nontoll roads. They too were jammed. Tempers were flaring. Drivers dove into small gaps in traffic like WW II kamikaze pilots attacking carriers. Finally the radio reported all the tolls on the Garden State Parkway had been opened to let traffic flow. I maneuvered back to the highway and had clear sailing to the Tappan Zee Bridge. The trip took six hours longer than it should have, but I was happy to be back in Connecticut. I thought, If I don’t get killed driving home, Iraq will be a cakewalk.
I arrived home at about 0400. We had no power. I told Kim by candlelight that I had passed and would be leaving in two weeks. I told the girls the next morning. I hoped in a weird way they were happy for me, but I could sense concern on their faces. They were used to my disappearances, but it was usually to Paris or London or Australia or South America, not to a war zone. And definitely not to Iraq. Friends, too, questioned my sanity. The only thing I could say was that I had signed up to go, I would honor my commitment, and I would be home in a month. I was excited!