WTF!? The ambassador looked at me quizzically and shook his head. I said I would take care of it. Room clearing in the palace? I had seen many stupid things up to this point, but this was by far the worst one yet. We had worked long and hard to be the quiet professionals, especially inside the palace. This was totally unacceptable. And, of course, this was more ammo for the anti-Blackwater folks who were working at the palace. I was beyond livid.
Drew B and I huddled. We agreed: strike 3. We collected the martial artist’s weapons, told him to pack his bags, and delivered him to the team house. While inspecting his room after his departure we found some frozen “ice knives” that he had made and stored in the freezer compartment of his refrigerator. Apparently, a real ninja can take a frozen knife out in 120-degree heat and shank somebody before it melts or gets soft. You can’t make this stuff up.
The beauty of the team house was I could now send a guy who did not make the cut directly there. They had a much larger admin presence and could process guys much more quickly than we could; and I would be rid of them and the responsibility of their potential stupidity. I never felt guilty about it. Blackwater’s weakly screened candidates and friends of friends had been giving me gray hair since my arrival in Iraq. These problem children had been landing in my lap. Now the company could deal with some of them for a change.
Attacks were becoming almost daily occurrences on the airport road. It was not a place to be unless you absolutely had to be there. To avoid using the road we began using the Little Birds to transport guys who were rotating out or to ferry in new arrivals. I just was not going to risk losing people unless it was an emergency.
Frank T, the team leader for The Dirty 30, came to me one Saturday afternoon with an urgent request. He was a no-bullshit former SEAL, and a real legend in the Teams. I knew if he was coming to me it was important as hell. On every trip up BIAP, fuel convoys were being destroyed, and fuel was getting scarce for the generators that ran the Green Zone. The Dirty 30 had been ordered by their government agency to get a tanker to the Green Zone using whatever means they could. We talked about the logistics and what and when he would need the Little Birds to run air cover. I agreed. At first he explained the Little Birds were to provide protection for the tanker. I told him we would do it, but only as long as he understood the Little Birds were there to protect the Blackwater guys not the tanker. He smirked at me and said that was what he had hoped to hear but could not say. We scheduled the op for about forty-five minutes later.
As we were getting ready for the mission he got a call on his radio saying one of his teams had been ambushed on BIAP road. The helos were already spinning up, so I sent them to help Frank T’s guys. Response time would be three minutes or so. Their car had been blown up, and they were under attack by armed gunmen. Capt. Chaos piloted the lead helo; Hacksaw was in the second Little Bird training a new pilot. As they approached the scene Chaos saw two guys firing at people. He told the door gunners where the targets were located, then banked the bird so they could shoot safely. Carmine and Cowboy were in the lead helo with Carmine on the shooting side. Instantly they recognized Brutus (now back with The Dirty 30) on the ground and in trouble along with his team. Carmine reported they were friendlies, and Capt. Chaos turned and went after the “real” bad guys. The new pilot attempted to get his machine in a position where the shooters could get clean shots at the bad guys. When they were aligned, Hacksaw leaned out of his side of the Little Bird to shoot, but just then the new pilot flew into a flock of pigeons. One of the pigeons bounced off the windscreen and struck Hacksaw in his left lower jaw. The impact knocked his hat off and nearly knocked him out. Even the pigeons were dangerous on BIAP road. Birds 2–Little Birds 0.
The helos stayed in overwatch position while Frank T’s guys went out and picked up Brutus and the other survivors. One car destroyed, no one hurt. Luck is an amazing thing. Had I not agreed to the tanker run, the birds would not have been spinning up and the time to get to Brutus would have been significantly longer. Blackwater’s body count most likely would have jumped to six. Now Brutus owed me. I had not gotten him killed on our gig and had helped save his ass on another.
The best part of this story is that it morphed into a crazy tale of me commandeering a helo and flying in alone; and of Brutus and his partner grabbing and hanging on to the skids as I flew them to safety. You have to love urban myths. The best ones sound cool as hell and might be true. We still laugh hysterically when we hear it.
We arranged for the actual tanker run, but it was scrapped due to an attack on a military convoy farther up BIAP road. The bad guys were getting bolder by the day. Rocket and mortar attacks on the Green Zone continued apace. The insurgents still had not hit the palace or the trailer parks.
With the latest Blackwater near miss the light went on for some of the weaker-minded members of the team that this was for real—as real as it could possibly get, and it was not going to get any better. We were protecting the biggest target, not just in Iraq, but in the world. A few guys came to me and asked to go home. I felt that if they did not want to be there, they should not be. Others volunteered to stay until the announced 30 June departure date of Ambassador Bremer.
Q and his driving team were scheduled to depart at the end of April. I asked them to consider staying on past their rotation date. The decision they made to stay was in no way a difficult one. Q relayed it to me. “The conversation went like this: Me, ‘Frank wants us to stay. I’m in.’ The others, ‘Roger that. If Frankwater wants us to stay, we stay.’” End of conversation.
That’s just how we operated. Need something, get something. They came to me and said they would stay until the end of May. Blackwater was not happy. HQ wanted them to leave even earlier than the end of April so they could set up the fledgling Worldwide Personal Protective Security (WPPS) driver training program for the guys who would be protecting the new ambassador. True to their word, Q and the drivers were staying. I was extremely pleased. I later learned that their dedication included passing up $10,000 bonuses to leave.
The last two months were going to be scary as hell. If the last half of March and first half of April were an indicator, we would be earning our money the hard way. I wondered many times why Blackwater would weaken the team for their highest-profile protectee in order to train guys for a lesser-ranking one. It made zero sense to me. If Bremer were to be killed, they would lose the next contract more quickly than they had gotten it in the first place. Business decisions are always tough to make, but the customer and the product have to come first. Blackwater was in this position because of the excellent job we had done up to this point, and now they seemed to lose focus on why they were here in the first place. I needed my best and most experienced guys down the home stretch, not just bodies.
The palace finally got hit by mortars. Two rounds exploded on the chow hall roof. No one was hurt. The workers even managed to clean up the mess in time for chow to be served.
Chaos and craziness seemed to take over the Green Zone. As more and more people came to the war zone, traffic intensified. Tempers got short. More so-called power players arrived to assess the situation and make recommendations. The UN sent over a guy to offer his advice on the continuing turmoil. His PSD team was made up of Air Force OSI (Office of Special Investigations) guys. They wore their disdain for us openly on their sleeves. We were the dirty mercenaries, and they busted our balls at every opportunity.
There is a basic rule in protective operations that states that the highest-ranking protectee at an event has his security team lead the security setup. As Ambassador Bremer was the highest-ranking man in Iraq at the time, we always set things up and used the other PSD teams as support elements. Many times we would deny access into an event to other PSD teams. Once we had the places locked down we did not want any other weapons around us if the shit hit the fan. We never had any real problems until this UN team arrived. The other PSD teams knew we had the right of way
and had far greater assets than they did. They also knew their protectee was safe as hell when with Bremer.
At the first Iraqi Governing Council meeting that the UN delegate and his PSD attended, they decided they should be able to park in front of the entrance/exit point. We had arrived first, and unfortunately for them this was not an option. They ordered my guys to move so they could take the spots. I came out and tried to explain to them the reality of the situation. They claimed the UN guy was now the highest-ranking person in Iraq. Really? The UN trumped Ambassador Bremer? The discussion grew heated. I called my MP CAT commander over, told him to arrest them right now and haul them to the brig. The MP was more than happy to do so and called a few of his guys over to assist. As the handcuffs came out the Air Force guys quickly realized this was actually going to happen. They wisely decided this day was not the day for this fight. When we returned to the palace I reported the incident hoping that someone would explain the situation to the UN guys in a way they could understand because apparently my grasp of the English language was not up to their refined and lofty standards.
Later that day I met with the UN lead security guy who was accompanying the UN rep. Bill Miller had already spoken to him and explained the situation and told him that Bremer’s guys called the shots. He apologized and said it would never happen again. Problem solved, or so I thought.
The next day we arrive at another IGC meeting, but the UN guys had arrived five minutes earlier than us and had taken over the front of the building. Sax ordered them to move. They refused. Rather than risk having the ambassador witness a scene, Sax (correctly) waited for the ambassador to get inside. We did the arrival, and I went in with the boss. Then I called Q and told him to get the motorcade staged. Travis T walked up to one of their drivers, an Air Force officer, and he asked him to pull out so we could get staged. The guy was about six foot two, 240 pounds (twenty pounds overweight), and must have thought he was a tough guy.
Travis T: “Can you guys pull out so we can get staged?”
Air Force Guy: “Fuck you. I’m not moving.”
Travis T: “Really. No need to get pissed off. I’m just following orders. You have to move.”
Air Force Guy: “You can go fuck yourself. Who the fuck do you think you Blackwater cocksuckers are?”
Travis T: “This doesn’t have to get ugly unless you want it to.”
Air Force Guy: “If I get out of this truck, I’m going to kick your little ass.”
Travis was about five feet, ten inches and right around 200 pounds. He was also the strongest guy on the team. Three percent body fat, MMA fighter, former U.S. Marine. There were not many guys I would not fight, but the thought of tangling with Travis would make me cry before it started. He was a physical freak. Dunk a basketball, bench 400, squat 600, run a 4.4 40-yard dash. You get the picture.
Travis T: “You open that door and two things are going to happen. One, your clothes are going to get real dirty, and two, your feelings are going to get real hurt.”
The guy went to open his door and smash it into Travis. Big mistake. Travis slammed the door shut and bitch-slapped the dude so hard across the face tears welled up in his eyes. He looked at Travis and saw this was going to be a very real thing and quickly drove off. I’m sure the handprint is still visible today.
The Air Force guys were relieved that day, and CID took over the protection. The original CID guys, who had been royal pains in the ass, had departed. Their replacements were top-shelf guys, younger, in great shape and extremely professional. Much easier to work with. We never had another problem with the UN.
A day or two later I got a call from Bill Miller telling me the Air Force wanted to remove the surveillance system that had been installed at the ambassador’s residence. It was a very sophisticated system with thermal imaging capabilities, and it allowed the villa guys to keep an eye on everything that was happening around the villa, even at night. It also gave them the ability to zoom in on anything suspicious they wanted to examine. More than a few times the villa guys spotted bad guys setting up mortar emplacements across the Tigris River and were able to alert the military about the impending attack. It was truly a great piece of equipment, but the Air Force was a tad pissed off about the OSI guys getting booted off the UN detail … oh well.
Remembering Jim Cawley’s advice to call him if I ever needed something, I took it down a notch and got in touch with him at the Secret Service to explain the situation. He said he would take care of it. He talked to the director of Protective Operations, called back, and told me not to worry; the Secret Service had handled the issue. The surveillance system never left. As a matter of fact it even stayed in place for Ambassador Negroponte when he took over from Bremer. The Secret Service was a godsend to us while we were there. Of all the people who truly understood what we were doing, they had the best handle on just how tough it was. Like many others I can never thank them enough—especially Jim Cawley. Jim was always there when I needed him.
With all the additional people now working and driving in and around the palace and the Green Zone, traffic was bad. The Force Protection team, made up of U.S. and coalition military troops in charge of the overall protection of the Green Zone, decided to reroute traffic for security and safety. They blocked off some routes with additional blast walls and opened up streets that had originally been closed. It took us a few days to completely learn the new traffic patterns.
The biggest problem was the heat of the Iraqi spring. Everything in Iraq is covered by a film of what can be best described as talcum-powder-like sand. We called it moondust. Every time you walked anywhere, your shoes or boots would be covered with this dust. That was the reason the ambassador opted to wear his “Bremer boots” in lieu of dress shoes. On the nonpaved areas the dust was about an inch thick. The roads that had been closed for months were thick with this substance. It was slippery as hell, and dangerous until the traffic eventually blew it off. The few times that it rained, water turned the moondust into thick, sticky mud that got into everything.
One day, on a trip to the IGC, the lead car attempted a right-hand turn but the front wheels hit the talcum powder and the Suburban did not respond. The vehicle went straight at and into a twelve-ton blast wall. The driver hit the brakes, but even stopping on this substance was impossible. Fortunately the vehicle was only moving about 5 mph when the collision took place and no one in the vehicle was injured. The air bags didn’t even go off.
The ambassador was in the limo and watched as this unfolded. His only comment was,
“Oh, that’s not good.”
We continued on to the meeting while the lead car backed up and tried to join us. Rather than take any chances with a damaged vehicle I had the driver drop off his team and take the car to the shop to be examined for structural damage. I truly thought there would be no, or minimal, damage. Wrong. The energy of a 10,000-pound vehicle hitting a twelve-ton concrete barrier at 5 mph is apparently greater than I, with my limited physics background, could have guessed. The frame was bent, and the vehicle was totaled. Fortunately, by now the CPA had a large inventory of armored vehicles, and we were able to replace the car the same day with an identical unit. Thank you, Ambassador Kennedy. The damaged vehicle was stripped and used for spare parts.
Q decided to have some fun with the lead car driver and told him that he was pissed and had recommended to me that the driver be fired. He told the driver that I was trying to decide what to do. Later that evening I got a knock on my trailer door. It was the driver apologizing for wrecking the car and saying he fully understood why I was firing him. I told him there was no way it was his fault and that firing him never even crossed my mind. Like more than a few others who had made mistakes, I told him that he had major chips in the Frankwater bank that could be exchanged for an “oh shit” moment. He looked at me like I was crazy. I asked him where the news of his demise was coming from as it certainly had not come from me. He told me
that Q had told him he was going to have to pack his gear in the morning. We both realized that Q had set him up, and we laughed like hell. Just another day with the boyz. No one was immune to the daily shenanigans, not even close friends.
The heat was back with full fury. Hacksaw and I had another talk about getting smaller door gunners due to the lift issues associated with the heat. We needed more door gunners as some had rotated out. I called a team meeting and asked for volunteers. Volunteers were numerous, so Hacksaw and I went down the list and chose ten guys to take the course. He would take the top six, and they would belong to him. The course would be run by Hacksaw and Ron “Cat Daddy” Johnson.
Cat Daddy was a former Army Ranger who had been injured during the Grenada invasion. Rather than retire with a medical discharge he volunteered for helicopter flight school. Eventually he became a pilot for the famous TF-160 Night Stalkers. He was a great guy, strong as an ox, tough as nails, and funny as hell. He, Carmine, and Clutch were my Ranger poster children. Ron was killed in action in 2007 while trying to rescue another Blackwater team that had been attacked in Baghdad. He was a warrior of the highest order. His Little Bird was shot down and somehow Ron survived the crash only to be executed—shot in the head—while trying to escape. The militants also stole all his personal items—watch, ID cards, etc. Those of us that knew him were devastated. The other three Blackwater guys on his Little Bird were also killed.
Back in the command post, Ken was going stir-crazy. I liked Ken, but some of the guys did not. A few felt that he thought way too highly of himself for being only the OB (office bitch). Ken had been given several call signs over the months that he’d been with the team—Radar O’Reilly, Christian Slater, OB, and B-Town’s all-time favorite, “Habibti,” which loosely translated in Arabic means “my beloved girlfriend”—but none of those had stuck.
The Bremer Detail Page 18
