The Bremer Detail (20 page)

About an hour into the party Sue comes over and asks me who the “ragtag guys” are that just arrived outside who were helping themselves to the beer. I went out and saw four Blackwater guys from another contract standing there, drinking beer, wearing dirty T-shirts, body armor, ball caps, and carrying weapons. If this wasn’t bad enough, they had grenades hanging off their vests. I asked them what they were doing here, and they replied they had been told the ambassador was throwing a party for Blackwater. I told them that the party was for his PSD team not for Blackwater, and they had to leave. I went back inside and found the sergeant major. I told him to make sure they were gone ASAP. He came back to me and said they were refusing to leave. By now the ambassador’s military attaché wanted to know who the vagrants were and why they were in an area restricted to authorized personnel. The hits just kept coming.

I went out and told them, “Get the fuck out of here now!” They were pissed off. Once again I got the one team–one fight speech. They finally left. I was beyond pissed off and embarrassed as hell. What were these guys thinking? To add even more insult to injury, one of these ass clowns was the first guy I had sent home off the detail.

The next day I got forwarded an e-mail from their team leader complaining to Blackwater HQ about my unprofessional behavior. Blackwater HQ wanted an explanation, which I gladly supplied. I could not type fast enough to explain these guys were brain-dead stupid fucks. Then I got a personal e-mail from this guy telling me that he was going to kick my ass the next time he got to Baghdad. I told him I was not hard to find and sent him my phone number and added, “Please call me at your earliest convenience.” He never called. Blackwater quickly sent out an e-mail reminding everyone that we were “The Bremer Detail,” to stay away from us, and that we had different standards, a different set of protocols, and a completely different mission than any other Blackwater team in Iraq. We were protecting a head of state; they were not. We were the equivalent of the Secret Service in our little part of the world. They were not. No hard feelings. It is what it is.

May 2004

Kelli’s graduation was in two weeks. I called Brian Mac and asked to see him. We met and I asked his advice on how best to broach the subject of a week away. He looked at me and shook his head. There was no way in hell he thought the ambassador would let me leave. He told me that many others had missed significant events in their lives in pursuit of the mission. Of course, he was correct. What was I thinking? I, myself, had told many of my guys that they could not leave. Who was I kidding? How would it have looked if I had taken off? I decided not to even broach the subject with the ambassador. Brian Mac had a firm grasp on how the boss thought, and right then there was way too much going on to distract anybody from their primary missions. I called Kelli and told her that I had lied; I would not make the graduation. She said she understood. My wife was pissed. In my honor, Kelli wore a Superman T-shirt under her graduation gown and sent me the picture.

As the departure date drew closer Ambassador Bremer and Sue put together a list of all the people he wanted to personally thank before saying good-bye. The list was massive. Included were all the Iraqi diplomats he had worked closely with throughout his year. There were dinners and lunches proposed; office meetings and home visits. I asked Sue if the ambassador could possibly host these good-byes in the palace instead of heading out into the Red Zone. She responded in typical Sue fashion, “Are you fucking kidding me? Once he makes up his mind, that’s it.”

You had to love Sue.

We went across The 14th of July Bridge to another meeting at Abdul Aziz al-Hakim’s house. The scary element: there was really only one way in, and one way out. Darkness set in as we left. A grassy median between split the lanes of the road. Q was driving. As the motorcade picked up speed I noticed a car careening across the median directly toward the limo. I pointed at it as coolly as I could so as not to startle the ambassador. Q nodded, tromped on the gas pedal, and gently but firmly veered to the right, away from the car speeding toward us. He angled the vehicle so that he could slide next to the lead car and let them take the brunt of the explosion. I coolly talked into my microphone, “Eyes left.” The follow car saw the threat and moved to intercept. The CAT team commander told his guys to lock in on the target. All this in about two seconds. And then the car just stopped about forty yards from us. Nothing happens. Was it a test to see how we would react? Needless to say there were more than a few ass pucker marks on the seats when we got back to the palace.

During the first week of May a huge car bomb exploded on The 14th of July Bridge. It was detonated at the military checkpoint that stopped vehicles heading close to the Green Zone. Scores of people were killed or injured. It rocked the palace and even broke windows in the ambassador’s house almost a half mile away. Another reminder of just how close the enemy was to us at all times.

About this time Osama Bin Laden announced a bounty on the ambassador’s head. Bin Laden was offering ten thousand grams of gold to anyone who killed the ambassador. When I told Ambassador Bremer, he remarked that it sounded a little cheap as we were offering $25 million U.S. dollars for him. The ambassador always kept his sense of humor.

Bin Laden entering the bounty game was troubling for us because up to this point he had not made a direct threat against the ambassador. The bad guys had been primarily Iraqis fighting a religious conflict between Sunnis and Shiites seeking control of the country and revenge for past mistreatment. We all knew al-Qaeda was around, but they had not really concerned us. Now they also had our attention.

Slash called and said he had something important. We arranged to meet outside near the smoking area behind the rotunda. He told me that another raid had found more photos of me and other key team members—specifically Sax, Drew B, HB, Mongo, and Q. They also had additional video footage of our arrivals and departures. Damn. These bad guys were good. They were doing their homework and trying to figure out where and how we were vulnerable and the key folks to kill first. Q was on the list because if you killed the limo driver, you had more time to kill the ambassador because the limo would be trapped in the kill zone. Q had studied psychology in college so he always had unique psychological insights into things which many of the rest of us did not. I spent many hours on Dr. Q’s couch. In this case he was not amused, but became more wary and watchful.

We had not spotted the surveillance being done on us. This reinforced my belief that members of the press corps were playing both sides of the street. Again I wanted to lock the press out of the ambassador’s meetings. Again I was reminded that if an event is not covered, it did not take place. Fuck.

Around this time a different PSD team took their VIP to a meeting at the Ministry of Oil. They had not encountered any issues prior to this and apparently felt that their protectees were not very high on the bad guys’ radar. They had gotten into several bad habits. Upon arrival at the ministry, the drivers waited for the PSD team to take the protectee inside, then left their vehicles unattended while they grabbed a coffee or used the bathroom. Unbeknownst to them the bad guys had been watching and had noticed their habits and tendencies.

On this particular day, after heading inside, a person or people approached the unattended vehicles and placed a bomb with a timer under the right-rear seat of the limo. This bomb was directly beneath the VIP. Approximately forty minutes later, and just five minutes away from the Green Zone, the bomb exploded. It instantly killed the VIP. The force of the explosion bent the frame of the armored vehicle, trapping the AIC and the driver inside. Then the gas tank exploded. Teammates watched the AIC and driver frantically trying to get the doors open, only to burn alive. It was another painful lesson to the PSD practitioners. Do not underestimate the bad guys. Do not leave your vehicles unattended. It proved once again that our anally retentive methods worked.

Around this time we also started locking down all the venues to which we brought the ambassador. Once we had established our security perimeter no one else was allowed to enter. And we really meant no one—regardless of rank or prestige. We arrived at the IGC one day at 1100 and set up our security. Around 1130 Jadicus called me on the radio to tell me that one of the Iraqi ministers and his security team had arrived and wanted to enter. The meeting was scheduled for 1100 and that meant no one else was getting in. I asked Jad if the minister had a watch on, and Jad reported that he did. I told Jad to tell him that 1100 meant 1100, not 1130. He had missed the window of opportunity to enter, and he was not getting in. Iraqi time was not our time. Tough shit. Security was security. If they could not get there on time, I was not going to allow the ambassador and my team to be put in danger. It would only take one man with a bomb strapped to his chest arriving late and avoiding the searches to kill the ambassador or a bunch of us. It was not going to happen.

Soccer is Iraq’s national sport, and their national team is the pride of their country. Iraqis live and breathe with their team. After the U.S. invasion, one of the major goals of the Iraqi sports foundation was to qualify for, and play in, the Olympics. Ambassador Bremer spent a lot of time and energy trying to help make this dream a reality. We attended quite a few events that supported the soccer team’s, and the country’s, fervent desire to once again become relevant in the world of soccer.

One morning we took the ambassador to an unrelated event for coalition forces at the Water Palace, and from there the plan was to fly to the National Soccer Stadium. The advance team had gone directly to the stadium and had set up security at the venue. The place was huge. The guys had a difficult time trying to cover all the potential attack positions to make sure that no one could harm the ambassador. The event had been publicized and I was again fearful of the press broadcasting the fact that we would be there. Sometimes I thought the press would much rather cover an assassination, or assassination attempt, than the regularly scheduled event.

We loaded onto the U.S. Army Blackhawks and headed to the stadium. Two Apache escort gunships flew beside us. I was always very happy to see them. By now the ambassador and I had amassed a lot of Blackhawk frequent flier miles. These pilots did a great job.

I tried calling Sax to let him know we were on the way. Our radios were limited in range, and with the noise of the Blackhawks, we both knew our comms would be difficult. I attempted to call him as we got closer, and he tried to reach out to us when he heard the rotor slap. Sax had prearranged for one of his guys to throw a red smoke grenade to indicate to us and the pilots that the site was secure and to land. I briefed the pilot on what to expect. I had on a headset that allowed me to talk to the pilots and to listen to what was going on. When I heard the pilot tell me we were about two minutes out, I tried to get Sax on our radios. No luck. The pilot told me that he saw an American on the designated landing area signaling to him. I told him to wait for the red smoke. The pilot then reported that he saw red smoke. I cleared him to land.

Smoke grenades usually detonate and send out huge plumes of a very dense smoke that the blades of the Blackhawks quickly dissipate. I looked out the side of the Blackhawk and saw very little smoke, but I was not concerned. As we set down and the ambassador stepped out, I could see patches of the field on fire. Like burning, as in a wildfire! In the middle of each fire was a glowing red spot. I advised the ambassador not to step on the red spots, and we walked over to the soccer team and did the event.

Over the radio I now heard the advance guys trying as hard as they could to stifle the laughter that somehow always accompanies an “Oh fuck” moment. It seems as though the advance guy had grabbed a red phosphorous grenade instead of the red smoke grenade. Phosphorous grenades are used to destroy vehicles or buildings. After exploding, they burn hot enough to melt steel. (Somewhere around 4,000 degrees Fahrenheit.) To say the least, they are not typically used to mark LZs as clear. Actually, they are never used for that. And, of course, we had not been issued any red phosphorous grenades. It seemed as though some of my guys had traded some stuff with our British colleagues to improve their load-out kit.

The ceremony ended and we flew back to LZ Washington. No one caught on fire and the field survived. We laughed like hell. There is never a dull moment in the PSD world.

The Iraqis did eventually qualify for the 2004 Olympics. And of course, up to that point, every time they won a game bringing them a step closer to the Games, the celebratory gunfire turned Baghdad into a festival that sounded like the world’s biggest firefight. Bullets landing on the trailers sounded like heavy rain. We were very happy for the people; we just wished they used fireworks to celebrate instead of AK-47s.

The Governing Council of the Iraqis had a rotational system where each member of the IGC took a month-long turn as acting president. In May the president was Izz al-Din Salim. It was a tough spot for any of these men as they then became the focal point of all resentment and hostility aimed at the embryonic government.

On 17 May 2004, then-acting president Salim was heading into the Green Zone to go to the IGC for the day. As he approached the checkpoint a car filled with explosives was detonated by its driver. The assassination had been carefully planned. The bad guys had done their homework and knew the approximate time Salim would arrive. The blast destroyed the acting president’s vehicle, killing him instantly. It was a huge bomb. Other vehicles in the motorcade sustained significant damage, and several of his staff and security team members also suffered injuries.

The ambassador was shaken. Later that day he went to pay his respects to the Salim family. They were in shock, and his surviving staff and security guys were still wearing their blood-splattered clothes. That the murder took place just outside the Green Zone once again reinforced our fear of potential threats to the ambassador every time we went out for a Red Zone mission.

And once again my guys sensed that the rules of the game had changed. The bad guys were doing active surveillance on the targets they wanted, and they were not afraid to act. You can get all the warnings you want, but when it hits this close to home, the warnings take on added significance. Suicide attacks are the hardest to stop. If a person is willing to give his life to kill someone, the elements of pain and death have been removed from the equation. He knows he is going to die. The thought of being shot at holds zero significance. The only goal is to get as close as possible to the target—the ultimate smart bomb!

Ambassador Bremer was the kind of man who shook every hand and posed for every picture that was requested. It made the job for the advance team that much tougher as they set up the concentric rings of security to make sure no evildoers entered the ambassador’s space. The detail team went crazy trying to keep people away from the ambassador without him seeing them doing it. It was a kabuki dance of the highest order.

The ambassador’s farewell tour got under way. The list of people he would visit was almost finalized and the schedule was being prepared. One afternoon he had scheduled a trip to the Ministry of Oil. Each of the preceding five days a coalition convoy had been attacked after departing the ministry. I did not like the idea of going there at all, especially after the incident two weeks earlier. Neither did my guys. I called one of my intel resources and asked him to meet with me. At the meeting he explained that his group suspected, but could not prove, that a person or people working at the ministry were notifying the bad guys as each convoy departed. The bad guys would then quickly organize an attack based on the direction of travel the convoy took. There were only a few routes that would take you from the ministry back to the Green Zone. It was fairly easy to determine the route and stage an attack.

I met with the ambassador and expressed my concerns. He listened carefully then said that he had to go. I attempted to sway him, but he told me our meeting was over and he turned back to his work.