by Joe Biden
By the time I sat down with President Obama to make the case for helping Abadi, I had begun to see the predicament in Tikrit as an opportunity. If the president set hard and fast conditions for our support, Abadi delivered, the Iraqis received the help they needed from us and pushed ISIL out of Tikrit, then the value of a unity government in Iraq would be apparent to all. Abadi would have passed his first real test. The conditions I suggested to the president were these: Before any U.S. air strikes began, command and control of the offensive would have to be shifted to Iraq’s ministry of defense and Abadi himself, in coordination with the U.S.-led counter-ISIL coalition. We would need full visibility on all the forces on the battlefield and confidence that we knew exactly where every player was located, from the Shia militias, to Soleimani and his Iranian special forces, to the Iraqi army and federal police. The final attack to liberate the city had to be led by forces we trusted, including Iraq’s elite counterterrorism services, the Iraqi army, and local Sunnis. The Iranian-backed militias had to withdraw to the outskirts of the city and remain there for the duration of the battle. Most important, there had to be a strong and visible contingent of Sunni tribal fighters in the final battle. And the Sunni civilians who had fled Tikrit during ISIL’s rule or during this new battle had to be allowed to return to their homes in the city, with essential services like water and electricity to be restored and with the promise of protection from Shia reprisals.
The Sunni piece of the plan was critical for two reasons. First, it would prove that fighting ISIL in Iraq was not a war of Shia against Sunni, but a war of patriotic Shia, Sunni, and Kurdish Iraqis against a dangerous and radical jihadist terror group. And second, it was the best hope to make peace and security in Tikrit (and other cities liberated from ISIL) sustainable for the long term. And unless peace and security were sustainable—militarily and politically, by the Iraqis themselves—there was no reason to risk a single American in the fight.
We had already lost 4,489 American lives in Iraq and spent more than a trillion dollars, with far too little gain to show for all that loss. President Obama was wary, as was I, about ending up with tens of thousands of American boots on the ground in Iraq, fighting another hot war. But if the operation in Tikrit worked as planned, it would likely set a template to be followed in future counter-ISIL operations there. When the fight turned to Mosul, the Kurdish commanders nearby would understand they needed to work with Abadi and his minister of defense in Baghdad in order to get U.S. military support. Iraqi soldiers (Shia, Sunni, and Kurd) under the command and control of Baghdad would do the fighting in their own theater, supported by U.S. airpower, planning, and training. And Iranian influence would be blunted. The president understood the risks, but he also understood the upside. We should communicate the conditions to Baghdad, he told me. The ball would be in Abadi’s court.
Abadi did not hesitate when our ambassador presented the list of conditions in the middle of March; it came at just the right time for him. The battle for Tikrit was a stalemate. The Popular Mobilization Forces and the Iranian-backed elements on the ground had claimed control of about half of the city in the first week of attack, but they were no longer winning any new territory. ISIL soldiers, though badly outnumbered, were inflicting real damage. They had littered the ground with improvised explosive devices to slow attacks. ISIL suicide bombers roamed the streets in search of PMF targets. Casualties among the PMF grew to more than a hundred a day. Nearby morgues overflowed with the dead. “It’s a furious fight,” said one militiaman, who had just lost his father in the battle. “Harder than we thought.”
The powers back in Iran, frustrated by the lack of progress, had begun to ship two-thousand-pound rockets and smaller missiles to the battlefield, raising concern that they were preparing a massive bombardment of the remainder of the city. “Generally speaking,” one defense analyst told a New York Times reporter, “these weapons are more effective at terrorizing civilians than providing fire support for ground operations.” There were, meanwhile, unwelcome reports of Shia militiamen burning and looting Sunni homes and businesses in and around Tikrit. The fight appeared to be devolving into another Shia vs. Sunni sectarian brawl, a brawl that could blow apart Abadi’s government.
So the prime minister decided to use our conditions as I had hoped he would—as an opportunity to seize the reins. Abadi made the formal request for the air strikes and other aid from the U.S.-led coalition, explained to the Iraqi parliament the dire need of U.S. assistance, and then started checking off the boxes. He handed command and control to his minister of defense, a Sunni Muslim; sent his elite counterterrorism services to Tikrit to be the point of the spear in the attack; brought more Sunni tribesmen into the fight; ordered the Shia militia units to stand down in Tikrit; and reassured leaders of Sunni governments in Saudi Arabia, Egypt, and Jordan that security in the Sunni city, once liberated, would be handled by local Sunni police and not by outside Shia militiamen who might still be nursing understandable malice.
Abadi had a hard time selling this new plan to the majority Shia party in the Iraqi parliament, but he got crucial political cover from the spiritual leader of Iraq’s Shia Muslims. On March 20, 2015, Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani sent a representative out at Friday prayer in Karbala to express the necessity for national unity in the battle for Tikrit—which meant Shias fighting side by side with Sunnis to expel ISIL. The minute I saw the statement from Sistani’s man I knew Abadi had cracked the code; it increased my faith in Abadi’s strategic ability as well as his political instincts.
* * *
The first American air strikes began to hit ISIL targets on March 25, 2015. Predictably, a few of the Iranian-sponsored Shia militia leaders expressed displeasure as the bombing began. “Some of the weaklings in the army say that we need the Americans,” said one Popular Mobilization Force commander, “but we say we do not need the Americans.” Other Shia militiamen announced that they were picking up their weapons and going home. A few said they were sticking around in hopes of finding Americans to attack. The most telling sign, however, was the retreat of Soleimani. The Iranian Quds Force commander realized he had lost his opportunity to claim victory in Tikrit on behalf of Iran. He’d been outmaneuvered and had no option but to return to Tehran. The show of American airpower reset the battlefield inside Tikrit. “The hour of salvation” had arrived, Abadi announced that evening on Iraqi state television. “We will liberate each inch of Iraq. The victory of Iraq is being achieved by Iraqis, hero Iraqis,” he said, “with support from friendly countries and the international coalition.”
I felt good that day, as the new battle began to unfold. ISIL still held more than half of the city, but Abadi had gained control of the operation. And we had given his forces a fighting chance. What would happen from here was no sure thing. I agreed with the assessment offered to a reporter on the ground in Iraq by an unnamed U.S. official: “This was a calculated risk,” he said, “but it’s one that had to be taken.”
* * *
The day after the air strikes began in Tikrit, I boarded an unmarked plane with my family for a trip to M. D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. Beau would be there for a week at least, to undergo the surgery and then the injection of the live virus. At Beau’s request, we were all working hard to ensure his privacy, which required remarkable acts above and beyond the call of duty by a number of people—most crucially, our Secret Service detail. While I had always greatly admired and respected them, over the course of the previous eighteen months I had developed a new appreciation for the men and women on my detail. The team had shown kindnesses to my family that were well beyond professional and were impossible to repay. I occasionally heard one of the agents say that they were here to protect more than our bodies; they were determined to protect our dignity. And I had become increasingly aware of that in the last few months, especially during our recent family outings, when agents would surreptitiously step in front of citizen photographers to make sure they didn’t get any pictures of Beau’s obvio
us physical decline. Or how they would hang back at the top of the trail in the Tetons so Beau, Hunter, and I could have a moment of privacy, just the three of us, at the top of a mountain.
I had also come to rely on my new personal aide, Colonel John Flynn. Flynnie was an air force pilot—he flew C-17s—who had been one of my military aides when Beau was first in trouble. The colonel had taken it upon himself back in August 2013 to figure out how to get the entire family to and from M. D. Anderson without inviting attention. He called friends he could trust in the air force, got a flight pattern and a secured remote airfield where we could land, and he did it all without causing any chatter inside the military. And Colonel Flynn, who had become a very close friend by then, made it happen again on March 26. We flew to Ellington Air Force Base and took a loose and quiet motorcade—no motorcycle cops, no sirens—right to a side entrance at the hospital complex, barely visible from the main roads.
From the moment we all walked into the hospital, I was reminded of how the people at M. D. Anderson had become something like extended family. And it wasn’t just Dr. Yung and Dr. Sawaya. The hospital had a special envoy who always made sure Beau got in and out of all his tests and procedures with minimal hassle and absolute privacy. He met us as we entered the facility and it was obvious Beau, Hallie, and Hunter knew him well—“Hey, Chris!”—and counted on his help. He was a friend. He escorted us up to Dr. Yung’s office, where the advanced practice nurse, Eva Lu Lee, who did the intake, gave Beau a big hug and a kiss, and asked after Natalie and Hunter. “Beau,” she said, pointing to his green socks, “I see you’re wearing them again.” She was a friend. Dr. David Ferson, the anesthesiologist who had been the other crucial physician in Beau’s awake craniotomy in 2013, made sure to be at Beau’s preoperative scan in the MRI area. The scans took a long time, and Beau was encased deep in the small machine during the procedure. Dr. Ferson knew Beau was uncomfortable and slightly claustrophobic, so he always made sure to be on hand to help out. He was a friend, too.
Jill and I felt better seeing how many reinforcements our son had here at Anderson. And we were reminded again of the incredible support Beau was getting from the entire family. Hallie was still a rock, even in the face of her husband’s obvious physical deterioration. Ashley was there to be with her big brother, and Ashley’s husband, Howard, an M.D. himself, had stayed in constant contact with the doctors at Anderson, talking over treatment and keeping an eye on Beau for them in the long intervals between visits. Howard also translated the medical talk into plain English for me. But the more I saw and heard at Anderson, the clearer it became to me that Hunter Biden was the crucial beam in Beau’s support structure. His mission, Hunter had confided to Dr. Yung, was to save his brother. And Hunter’s determination, I knew, was a real act of bravery. I had always tried to impart to my children the lesson that my mother taught me, my sister, and my brothers: There is no one in the world you are closer to than your brother and sister. You have to be able to count on each other.
Hunt understood the Biden code from the time he was a kid. He could be counted on. He was the person at the front of the wedge in the hallways, out ahead of the Secret Service agents, making sure Beau got where he was going on time. He pulled Dr. Yung aside separately to ask the questions that might have answers he would want to shield from Beau. Hunt was at the scans, standing at the corner of the MRI machine, so he could rub Beau’s foot and talk to him, to keep him calm. Whatever Beau asked for—water, fruit, a sandwich—Hunter ran for it, so his brother did not have to wait. He sat with Beau in the hotel room in the downtimes, watching golf. He made a trip to the gift shop to buy a new multiday pillbox to help manage the growing regimen of drugs. “Hunt, I already have a system,” Beau argued. “I know what I’m doing.” But Hunt was not going to let him make a mistake. “I’m going to make sure you’re doing it,” he insisted. Hunt crawled into bed with Beau just to be near, so Beau could talk. And Hunt was there to put his arms around Beau in the moments before his brother went into surgery.
The entire scene at Anderson would have been encouraging, but for one big thing: while Beau was still determined and mentally tough, he did not seem physically well to me. He came through the surgery on March 27 just fine, with no ill effects to his cognition or his motor skills. Dr. Sawaya had excised all he had hoped to, but the tumor appeared to be growing fast now, and Beau was weak. The medical team had decided to wait until the next Thursday, April 2, to do the injection of the live virus. That was still six days away. But Dr. Yung and Dr. Lang wanted to be sure Beau was strong enough to handle it. So all we could do now was wait.
The family spent most of the next forty-eight hours at Beau’s bedside making sure he was comfortable, or consulting with Dr. Yung, or sitting around our hotel rooms trying to remind one another in spoken and unspoken ways that there was still hope. Our job was to keep that flame alive, and to make sure Beau felt it. Hallie was anxious and exhausted, but she never showed it. She insisted on spending the night with Beau in his hospital room instead of going up to her hotel room. She spent hours rubbing his feet, telling him he was going to get through this.
The White House Communications Agency had installed a secure telephone line in a room near Beau’s so I could deal with any emergencies that only I could handle. The most important call on my schedule was the day after Beau’s surgery, March 28, with Prime Minister Abadi. I had a fifteen-minute briefing with my national security team and officials from the State and Defense Departments that Saturday morning, and was on the phone with Abadi by ten o’clock.
He sounded better that morning. The battle for Tikrit was gaining momentum. Abadi’s troops were advancing toward the center of the city from four separate directions. U.S. airplanes and drones had carried out eighteen separate air strikes that day and had reportedly “pulverized” eleven of ISIL’s key fighting positions. But the battle was getting tougher—house-to-house warfare in dense residential neighborhoods. ISIL fighters were constantly regrouping to defend smaller pockets in the city; they set houses on fire or left them booby-trapped. Abadi wanted more drones in the air to provide intelligence for his own soldiers, as well as more air strikes. He also pointed out that ISIL was exploiting the Iraqi government’s focus on Tikrit to turn up the heat in Anbar Province, including in the contested city of Ramadi, which was less than two hours by car from downtown Baghdad.
My charge on the phone that day, as I saw it, was to express faith in my friend and remind him of what he had already accomplished. There was plenty of good news to build on: Abadi had convinced the Shia militias and their Iranian sponsors to back away from front lines. Abadi’s commanders on the ground were showing real ability, and had apparently persuaded local Sunni fighters to buy into the operation. I applauded his Iraqi security forces for showing real courage and real grit. The battle was far from over, but the big message I wanted to convey to Abadi was that the president and the U.S. military were still behind him, and so was I.
I got off the phone with Abadi thinking this operation just might work, but aware that the outcome was largely out of my hands at this point. This just might work was a phrase that seemed to define my entire life at the moment. Keeping the faith about Tikrit, like keeping the faith about Beau, was an act of will—a kind of house-to-house fight against doubt. I crawled into bed that night, said my rosary, and then made a special plea to Neilia and my mom: “Please. Please. Look out for Beau. And give me the strength to handle whatever happens.”
Two days after his surgery Beau was stable. There seemed to be no ill effects from the surgery. He was up and walking; his spirits were high. He was well enough that we decided it was okay to fly home for a few days and come back for the injection of the live virus on April 2. Hunt insisted on staying behind with his brother.
Leaving Beau in Houston was hard, though. I visited his room on my way out of town to tell him I would be back on Thursday for the injection of the live virus, and to let him know I was proud of him. “Honey, you’re doing an incredi
ble job,” I told him. “And the science is with us. It’s really moving fast. We’re going to beat this damn thing. You and Hunt and I have a lot to do. We have a lot of life to live.”
“It’s all good, Dad. All good.”
Then I put on my sunglasses and a ball cap and we all sneaked out a side door for the drive to Ellington. As Air Force Two took off, I felt compelled to open up my diary and write: March 29—Leaving MD Anderson with hope. Beau is an amazing man. As is Hunter. He is staying with [Beau] until the next procedure. I’ll be coming back. I paused. What else was there to say? I was afraid if I really opened up, I would give into a lurking despair, and I could not allow that to happen. I could not allow Beau or anyone else to see that, ever. I set aside the diary until the flight was nearly over, then picked it up again to add one line. Just landed. 6:07. I feel so goddam lonely.
* * *
The president’s office rang right on schedule, the first day of April 2015, and I grabbed my notes and headed down the corridor to the Oval Office for my weekly lunch with Barack. We had something worth celebrating. Haider al-Abadi was the big news all morning; there were television feeds and photographs of the prime minister walking down the streets of Tikrit, surrounded by a parade of Iraqi counterterrorism servicemen, federal police, Sunni tribal fighters, and a smattering of Shia militiamen. Some of the photos showed Abadi carrying a flag with three separate horizontal stripes—red, white, and black—emblazoned with green lettering in Arabic reading, ALLAHU AKBAR, or “God is great.” The Iraqi national flag. The militia flags appeared to have been stowed away. “Our heroic forces have entered the center of Tikrit and raised the Iraqi flag,” Abadi told the crowd of soldiers, civilians, and reporters. His defense minister back in Baghdad, Khalid al-Obeidi, was trumpeting the fall of Tikrit to the entire country. Iraqi soldiers, federal police, and Sunni fighters had done the hard house-to-house combat to clear the city of the last of the ISIL fighters, with a real assist from U.S. pilots, advisers, and weaponry. ISIL was finished in Tikrit, and its aura of invincibility had been punctured. “We have the pleasure, with all our pride, to announce the good news of a magnificent victory,” said Obeidi. The citizens of Tikrit had been rescued, and the defense ministry in Baghdad was just getting started, Obeidi assured—next up was Mosul to the north, and then on to the ISIL-controlled cities to the west. “Here we come to you, Nineveh!” Obeidi said. “Here we come to you, Anbar!”
