The Bremer Detail

by Frank Gallagher,John M. Del Vecchio

  The break ended abruptly. World events are tough to control. A massive truck bomb exploded at the gate into the Green Zone that we called “Baby Assassin’s Gate.” Brian Mac phoned, told me to get my ass back to D.C. ASAP.

  We returned to the sandbox on New Year’s Eve. The ambassador went to his villa; I returned to the madness. There were parties everywhere. I headed over to Blackwater Boulevard to see the guys and was met with a hero’s welcome. It felt good to be back. Adult beverages flowed like water, and even the “new leadership” guys were partaking. It was weird to me and some of the others that they were partying hard with the same guys they had been reporting back to Blackwater for disobeying the rules. Two of them even managed to find female companionship. Truly a strange change of attitude. I guess, after they had been there a couple of weeks, they had decided my way of doing things was okay. Funny how it works sometimes.

  A few days into January my “replacement” left, and a massive distraction to the team disappeared. No one mourned his departure.

  A few new guys had arrived while I was gone. One of them was John “Cowboy” Hall. Cowboy had been a Marine drill instructor at Parris Island, then a cop in Texas. He was a big guy, gruff, and took no shit from anybody. While I was gone B-Town had placed him at the villa and had told him I would meet with him when I returned. Cowboy and I got together and he told me that given a choice he would like to be a door gunner on the Little Birds. I was fine with that, but knowing his USMC background I upped the ante and told him he could do it if he would run both the villa team and the door gunner team. Cowboy said, “Yeah. Hell, yeah.” That day he became my first door gunner team leader. He was pleased and so was I.

  As I mentioned earlier there had been a few occasions when guys failed to show up for training missions or were late to support a mission with the ambassador. Cowboy quickly rounded up Mid Day, Carmine, Nsync, Mike “Junkyard” Adamson, and Dave “Rooster” Bradfield to form the nucleus of a semipermanent door gunner team. Staffing of the detail was still hit or miss, but I knew with Cowboy at the helm the training missions would take place and the guys would show up on time. Hacksaw was pleased, the door gunners were happy, and it was one less headache for me.

  January 2004

  Sue Shea, Ambassador Bremer’s personal assistant, had worked with him for years, including during his tenure at the State Department. She was a great lady and a true friend. Sue always looked out for the ambassador’s best interests, and constantly gave me the heads-up about the crazy places and the impossible meetings other groups tried to have the ambassador attend. Some of the visits were extremely ill-conceived, others downright dangerous. Whenever she came to me with their harebrained ideas, I would reach out to my intelligence sources and try to get the real scoop on those places and areas. I knew full well if I approached the ambassador with the suggestion of cancelling a meeting, I had better have my ducks lined up in a way that supported and strengthened my case. There was no way I could simply tell the ambassador I thought this or that appointment was a bad idea without facts to back up my statements. He would have laughed me straight out of his office, and out of the country.

  Sue also had a collection of nicknames for the people who worked there, and whom she had found to be less than honorable. Suffice to say some of these nicknames were not fit for public consumption. I laughed like hell every time she would call me and say something to the effect of: “The dickhead from governance is trying to get you all killed again” or “Frank, Shit-for-Brains is at it again. You won’t believe this one.”

  Sue took zero nonsense from anyone. She knew her job and did it exceedingly well. She was also not afraid to tell Ambassador Bremer exactly what was on her mind. One day, we took the ambassador to the office at 0630 as usual. He ate his breakfast at his desk and worked while he ate. Sue usually arrived at 0730. This particular morning she was making coffee when the ambassador popped out from his office and asked her, “Sue, I need the file on such and such.”

  Sue glared at him and said, “Damn it, Jerry, I just got here, you’ll just have to wait a few minutes.”

  Q was on duty at the office door, and the ambassador looked at Q and said: “I guess she told me.”

  Q responded, “Yes, Sir. She did.” All three of them then started laughing. That was Sue.

  When Sue called, it was always business first and then it would get funny. So when a call came from her I knew it was serious. My phone rang one day and she said: “Quick Draw McGraw is making everyone in the office nervous.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about. I headed over there as quickly as possible. Sue and I retreated outside to have a cigarette while she explained to me one of my guys had been practicing his quick-draw techniques from his holster while standing office watch. I was not happy. Especially when she told me who “Quick Draw” was. Apparently, one of the “leadership” SEALs (yes, the one who had wised up and shaved his beard) who had arrived a few weeks before had decided that he should sharpen his quick-draw pistol skills while in an office filled with the ambassador’s staff. This staff included the British ambassador, two full bird colonels, and about fifteen others. This was not good … especially with a loaded weapon.

  I called B-Town and asked him to “talk” to his brother SEAL. B-Town by now was getting tired of dealing with these problems. He had a conversation with the guy that they kept between them. The antics stopped. At least in the ambassador’s office.

  A week or so later we took the ambassador to a meeting at the Al Rasheed where all the heavy hitters from the coalition forces were getting together. The advance team had set up the standard concentric rings of security; and in a huge change for me, I allowed the other PSD teams to carry their weapons inside. My thought process had been that all the high-ranking attendees were making us a huge target, and that the more guys we had with guns who could fight if there were a problem, the better it would be for all of us.

  It was a huge PSD convention as well. Other U.S. teams, and many foreign teams, were there. We would be evaluated by all the others who desperately wanted to be us. Many had heard of Blackwater but had never met us. The hairy eyeball stares eventually stopped. We enjoyed each other’s company and got to know them while they got to know us. There were probably one hundred or so guys milling about drinking coffee, telling stories, smoking and joking.

  The sound an M-4 magazine makes when hitting a tiled floor, not to mention the sound of the ammo skittering across the floor, is unmistakable. Instinctively I smiled and turned around to see which idiot had dropped his magazine. Lo and behold, it was one of my guys. I contemplated suicide right there on the spot. The other PSD teams were laughing so hard that some of them were almost crying. And, you guessed it, it was “Quick Draw” again. I called B-Town on the radio and asked for a minute of his time. With an audible sigh he reported that he would meet me in two minutes.

  “B-Town, WTF is the deal with your brother?”

  “Father Frank, I know, I’ll talk to him.”

  “Really, this shit has got to stop.”

  “Frank, how do you think I feel? He’s an embarrassment to the Team guys.”

  “Well, I’m going to have to get rid of him.”

  “Please do. I can’t take any more calls from you. You’re killing me.”

  A week or so later, Quick Draw was gone. Not fired, moved to a different contract. Oh well, I warned them.

  I had my first near miss with the Little Birds and door gunners around this time. For months Blackwater had failed to provide helmets and eye protection for our door gunners—let alone night-vision equipment. The guys had been flying wearing ball caps, watch hats, and sunglasses. The day after the full helmets arrived Cowboy was flying a day mission as a door gunner when a flock of feathered birds flew into his helo. Hacksaw got whacked in the face, and it nearly knocked him out. Cowboy took one directly in the visor. The helmet had saved his vision. Without the visor he defi
nitely would have been blinded. He had about two dozen bird bones and feathers stuck in his face. Jadicus told him he looked like his face had been stomped by golf shoes. Jad cleaned him up, and Cowboy went back to work that afternoon. It was a miracle that Hacksaw had not lost complete control of the Little Bird and crashed. Cowboy was lucky that he had not been blinded. Lady Luck was still rooting for us.

  We did finally get night vision goggles for the door gunners. Prior to that, only one shooter on each night mission had one. It was kind of funny that we had shooters who would not have been able to see what they were shooting at if there had been a problem. It was even more ironic because of the amount of shit I got from the air side about not providing dedicated door gunners from day one. We had an infrared beacon on the limo so that the pilots and the one door gunner with NVGs always knew where the boss was, but the other three shooters were, literally, in the dark. The cold was also an issue. Cowboy would wear four layers of clothes to keep warm while flying for hours at a time. He would even duct tape the opening of his clothes in an attempt to keep the cold air out. He looked like the Michelin Man from the tire commercials, but he was warm. Eventually, the others followed his lead. Fuck fashion, this was combat.

  Blackwater at this time was going full throttle trying to win other Iraqi protection contracts. Based on the model we had developed and our solid track record, Blackwater had the inside track on most of them. Eventually, they did win several more contracts, and the Blackwater presence swelled from seventy-six (our detail of forty-six and the guys of The Dirty 30) to several hundred. Just like in the run-up to our detail, vetting and training was hurried, and some guys slipped through the cracks. I was happy that some of the Blackwater HQ attention had shifted from us to the numerous start-ups. Unfortunately, every time someone working for a new Blackwater team did something stupid, it landed in my lap. I spent many hours explaining that “we” only covered Bremer, not the rest of the country.

  Many of my best guys, instead of coming back to me, were now being shuffled out to other programs. It seemed that the more I requested a particular individual, the less likely it was that I would get him back. And then a few of the other companies began to offer my guys considerably more money than Blackwater was paying, and I lost several others. Through all this shuffling the ambassador concentrated on nothing but rebuilding the country.

  A typical day would go something like this:

  0530: Muster in front of the palace in preparation for pickup

  0545: Establish a security perimeter around the villa watching to see if anyone was watching us

  0630: Take the boss to the palace; begin office watch (two guys)

  0645: Check the schedule for any changes made overnight; check and respond to e-mails from Blackwater, etc.

  0700: Eat chow

  0730: Return to trailer

  0745: Check with the advance team to see if they had everything they needed for the day

  0800: Meet with the intel guys

  0830: Digest the intel and check it against the schedule

  0830: Advance team departs

  0845: Meet with Sue to see what events were being planned

  0900: Stage the motorcade for the first mission

  0930: Head to the first event

  1100: Return to the palace

  1130: Eat chow

  1145: Advance team departs

  1215: Stage motorcade for the next mission

  1245: Head to next venue

  1400: Return to the palace

  1415: Check schedule to see what changes have been made; notify advance team

  1445: Advance team departs

  1500: Stage motorcade

  1530: Depart for next venue

  1700: Return to palace

  1715: Check schedule for changes, notify advance team if there are any

  1730: Eat chow

  1830: Check with the ambassador for a tentative departure time

  2000: Stage motorcade for departure

  2200: Depart for villa

  2230: Return to palace

  2245: Check schedule for changes for the next day; notify advance team if necessary; check for e-mails from Blackwater

  2330: Return to trailer and sleep

  This was a typical day. We longed for a time when the ambassador would work the entire day in his office, but at this point that was not happening.

  The new gym finally opened, and we spent as much time there as we could in between runs around Baghdad. Most of the guys were gym rats of the highest order. And most were in great shape, and stronger than most other humans could ever dream of being. People would head over and see fifteen or twenty Blackwater guys in there, and they would just turn around and go back to their trailers. We probably had twenty guys who could bench well over three hundred pounds. At the pull-up bars our guys would wrap weights around their waists and see who could do the most reps. The dip bars became a place where guys contested who was strongest. It was like being around a professional sports team. Their bodies were their lifeblood; they counted on their strength and agility to save them, and they took their workouts very seriously. Ball busting was an everyday occurrence. Only the strong could survive.

  We would monopolize all the forty-five-pound plates and most of the benches. If there were any women in there, the shirts quickly came off, and the scene was straight from muscle beach. The women loved being there. Other men hated us. Jealousy can be a bitch. We made more money than they did, had way cooler jobs than they did, and were in way better shape. It was a great way for us to blow off steam in a nondestructive manner. I encouraged the guys to spend as much time there as they could; and they did, if and when the schedule permitted.

  The schedule was always a work in progress. The ambassador had to respond to every crisis that arose, and by this time they were coming fast and furious. The pressures that he dealt with every day would have crippled most people. He rarely, if ever got angry. He was an inspiration to the team. If he could do it at his age—sixty-two at the time—then we could hang in and support him. The guys truly admired him and his work ethic.

  Rocket and mortar attacks against the Green Zone were now becoming a weekly event. Sometimes it was several times a week. Barrages usually consisted of about four rounds of incoming. We would hear the launch, then the explosion. It got to the point where we would do a quick check of our extremities, then move on or roll over and go back to sleep. Engineers installed a warning system on the palace grounds that garnered the moniker, “the Giant Voice.” The massive loudspeakers advised everyone in the palace area of attacks—several minutes after they occurred. I’m sure that someone thought it was a great idea—maybe inspired by watching the old TV series M*A*S*H. The explosions were very loud. Then the Giant Voice would advise us to take cover and remain there until the all clear was given. No shit, Sherlock!

  The attacks never hit the trailer compounds—truly a miracle. The trailers would not have shielded us from much, as shrapnel would have opened them like cans of cheap dog food. Eventually a decision was made to put a series of sandbag walls around all the trailers to reinforce them. This meant that every day a legion of Iraqi workers arrived to fill and stack sandbags around the entire trailer park areas. The sandbags went around each and every trailer, and down the center of Blackwater Boulevard. The thought of these potential bad guys plotting and marking every inch of the living areas terrified us. With a simple GPS device they could have marked Blackwater Boulevard as a prime target. Whether they could hit it or not was another question. If they had, the injuries would have been a nightmare. They never did. Thank God.

  Intelligence sources cautioned that I had become a stated target of the insurgents. Sax was also named. I guess the security measures we used pissed off the bad guys. They could not get close enough to even attempt to kill the ambassador. Sax and I laughed. Then the next report came in saying
any Blackwater guy on the ambassador’s detail was worth $50,000 U.S. dollars—dead. This was not funny. I called a meeting and told the guys that the stakes had been raised and to be even more vigilant as we did our jobs. We had zero injuries up to this point and I wanted to keep it that way.

  One day, while attempting to sleep after an exhausting round of duty including a night shift at the villa and a day as a door gunner on the helos, Psycho was awakened from his slumber by the Iraqi day workers banging on his trailer—part of the ongoing sandbagging project. He stormed outside in his leopard-skin briefs with his M-4 at the ready and yelled at them: “Why can’t you behave like a subjugated people?”

  We laughed like hell. First because none of them spoke English, and second, because half my guys did not know what subjugated meant either. But an angry man in his underwear making threatening noises and carrying a rifle did make an impression on the workers. They stopped banging on his trailer.

  The first week of January also witnessed the departure of my second set of drivers. The first group—Gino N, a former Marine and cop, had actually quit law school to take the job; JD, a retired SEAL; and WW, a former cop—had done a good job, but they were nowhere near the caliber of my second group: Q, Travis T, and FB. Q and FB had been driving instructors at BSR. BSR at that time was a world-class driver training facility and school located in Virginia. Most federal agencies used the facility to train their security drivers. These guys brought an air of professionalism that was unparalleled. From day one the ambassador felt much more comfortable when he saw Q behind the wheel. These guys had the skills that allowed us to travel faster and far more safely than with the original crew. Many guys can drive fast when they do not have to worry about other vehicles that are following them, or when they do not have the most-threatened man in the world in the backseat. Driving these fully armored, level-6 Suburbans that weighed around ten thousand pounds in tight formations, at high speeds, over obstacle courses while anticipating being shot or blown up, and making it look as effortless as if they were driving Volkswagen Beetles, was an amazing feat. I’m not going to say that they were the only guys who could have kept us alive during the assassination attempt, but I will say that I know the main reason we survived was due in large part to their unique skills. I was very sorry to see them leave. The next morning when we returned to the office the ambassador asked me where “his” BSR guys were. When I told him that had rotated out, he was not happy.