Warrior Brothers (25 page)

My right hand held my rifle, the barrel resting against the dash. My left hand cupped the radio fist mic and also pinned
my map to my thigh. There was no time to daydream. We assessed the road for anything out of the ordinary. A dead dog, a plastic bag, a fresh mound of dirt. We scanned the high ground for insurgents, assessing parked cars, oncoming cars, merging cars. My eyes constantly flicked from the road ahead to my side mirror (to keep an eye on vehicle spacing) to my GPS to my map. Our senses were heightened, heart rates elevated, and our hands were moist. It was intense. We knew we were alive, but we were also aware that could change quickly.

I ordered a right turn at the first western entrance road to the dam. Our vehicles crested a small knoll and there it was – Haditha Dam. Although we were still two kilometres shy of the facility, we were struck with awe for this engineering marvel that spanned almost seven kilometres. Lake Qadisiyah radiated a brilliant blue, a striking contrast to the orange desert that bordered it. The magnificent body of water was easily restrained by the enormous concrete arms that cradled, with unflinching confidence, the icy run-off from Turkey. This father of engineering power was never going to allow his progeny to fall. But equal support was provided by mother earth. Her body pushed up against that of her husband, her arms intertwined with his. Together, their strength would embrace and protect their children indefinitely, until they were summoned by the mighty Euphrates to release the millions of litres that were their offspring.

While awestruck by the dam's majestic charm, we didn't forget to close up as we approached the western checkpoint. The welcome wasn't quite what I'd hoped for, as we were aggressively waved away by the guards.

I left my weapon in the car and, with the trusty Union Jack in hand, slowly approached the sentry on foot with my arms held in what I hoped was a non-threatening, surrender position. The breeze was like an icy dagger cutting through the air, making my eyes and nose water. Approaching a
military checkpoint looking like you have spent the entire day crying was sure to instil respect! Needless to say, I left my sunglasses on.

I was made to halt five metres from the checkpoint by an AK-47 pointing at my chest. These were not Americans – they were Azerbaijani soldiers, none of whom spoke any English. I was signalled to wait while the radio operator frantically chattered into the handset. You didn't have to be able to speak Azerbaijani to realise that they were informing their operations room of our presence. We sat patiently, and within 10 minutes a more accommodating figure dressed in US military fatigues approached the checkpoint.

We were soon granted access and directed to the operations room. When we arrived, I told the team to relax and have something to eat while Pottie and I went to meet the commander of the area, an American major. I informed him that the US Corps of Engineers had contracted an American engineering team to carry out an assessment of the turbines. Before I'd even requested any support, the major offered us accommodation and food. He also provided some mapping and an initial threat assessment of the area. What a man! Things were going so well that I seriously thought about asking for a couple of armoured vehicles complete with 50-calibre machine guns, but that might have stretched our still-developing friendship. With a departing handshake, the major ordered one of his men to provide our team with a tour of the facility – on the proviso that we would meet later in the day to discuss whether any further assistance would be required.

This, we learnt, was a common trait in the US military. They would often go out of their way to lend support, even if we were not American. They appeared to have a soft spot for Australians. While they might have difficulties in pinpointing where Australia was located on a map of the world, and some even had no idea what language we spoke, they certainly
knew who Crocodile Dundee and Steve Irwin were. For us, that was enough.

I became good friends with several of these guys and have kept in touch. A couple recently travelled to Oz to visit. One thing always remains consistent: Americans are incapable of saying ‘G'day, mate' without it sounding like a takeoff of a dated Paul Hogan advertisement. They also have a tendency to add a mysterious ‘I' to the word and linger on this letter like a tenor grappling with a falsetto. Even when they give it their all and say the phrase with total conviction, to us it still sounds so very, very wrong. Australians cringe to hear a phrase that is usually so friendly mocked or bludgeoned, even innocently.

Another common gaffe these guys often committed was to ask if I was from New Zealand. The only possible response was to tell them how much I liked their country, Canada. That was normally enough to do the trick. Allegiance to your nation is a big issue. Jim, the British former SAS soldier whom I worked alongside for several years, is equally appalled when asked if he's an Aussie. I've been asked at times where I reside in the UK. Jim is now highly proficient in the use of profanity, and me, well, I don't mind Freddie Flintoff, Newcastle brown ale or bacon and egg rolls. We all have to give a little from time to time.

But no-one calls an Aussie a Kiwi and gets away with it. You have to draw the line somewhere.

The hydroelectric facility was enormous and the internal stairwells led into a maze of underground chambers and voids. There was an overwhelming and pungent smell of methane throughout. Nauseating as it was, we continued lugging our equipment to the living quarters that had been allocated to us, which were on the seventh floor. As we wandered the facility, the Iraqi nationals working there stared
at us coolly, seemingly offended by our presence. It was obvious that our clients would require a 24/7 escort when travelling around this facility.

There were two wings, East and West, with 10 levels above ground. The Americans occupied the East Wing while the Local National Dam Management team and Azerbaijani soldiers occupied the West. There was evidence of significant struggles as numerous doors had been forced, and on every level we saw internal bullet strikes and scored surfaces, possibly from distraction grenades. We later heard that a US Ranger unit had initially secured the facility in an encounter where they were met by relatively low resistance. The Iraqi military had then attempted to retake the plant, which resulted in over 400 being killed. The majority of these men were from local militia units, so the hate-filled eyes that constantly swept over us were hardly surprising.

The lower levels were dark, noisy and cold. Oil-stained walkways and exposed live electrical wires were an occupational health and safety nightmare. In Iraq OH&S concerns must have seemed trivial: there were plenty of more gruesome ways to lose one's life. Perhaps accidental electrocution would have been one of the better options.

I established communications with Kuwaiti Ops and was informed that the clients would be arriving at the Jordan–Iraq border first thing the next morning. You've got to love those little surprises. The task had been brought forward by 24 hours, so our tour of the facility would have to be put on hold.

The team moved to our vehicles while I exchanged emergency numbers with the US operations room. The major was concerned that we were travelling the roads in non-armoured vehicles and without the support of heavy weapons. One of his first questions was, ‘What are you armed with?'

He was astounded to hear my reply: ‘AK-47s with three rusty magazines.'

The major did say that if we gave him notice, he might be able to arrange some ‘top cover' – a couple of gunships – to escort our vehicles past Alasad Airbase. While the gesture was much appreciated, for now we were on our own. We didn't have the luxury of time on our hands. It was 14:00 hours and we were uncertain how long the trip to Jordan would take. At least we would soon know whether or not we would be able to purchase fuel along Highway One. Things had gone exceedingly well and we were hoping that this next leg would prove no different. As it turned out, we would complete the final 150 kilometres in darkness.

We set off once again, after confirming our orders and enacting the possible scenarios and outcomes of the trip. It didn't take long before we were reminded about the perils of Highway Twelve. This time around, the numerous holes lining the verge were not a surprise.

A common insurgent tactic was to plant new bombs in old holes. Of course! Why not? Most of the work had already been done, so it was just a matter of lowering the shell in before connecting the initiation device and throwing a bit of debris over the top. Sometimes insurgents attempt to limit their time of exposure and connect the initiation set first. Occasional reports of two, three or four men found blown to shreds around the area of an IED usually indicated that it had been detonated during installation. There was no sympathy from us – as far as we were concerned, it was a shame it didn't happen more often.

These insurgents wouldn't have had a chance to reflect on where they went wrong. A 155-millimetre shell bursting within such close proximity would vaporise anyone within a metre or two, and if you were further away then the expanding gases would send a percussive wave that was so violent that one's eyes, eardrums, lungs and internal organs would rupture. Then there are the large pieces of razor-sharp shrapnel that cut through the air with a sickening shriek. These pieces of steel would mercilessly tear into flesh and dismember with such brutal force that arms, legs or heads were often ripped from their foundations.

There is nothing romantic about a well-placed roadside bomb.

During the second phase of the project, I received a Thuraya text message saying that the boys had been targetted by a roadside bomb. On the primary road between Jordan and Baghdad, four 155-millimetre shells were dug into the verge
around the vicinity of Ar Rutbah. The bombs were placed five metres apart and detonated in between the first and second vehicles. All four vehicles received fragmentation strikes and several had windows shattered.

But luck was on their side: due to the vehicles maintaining a 70-metre spacing, none of the guys were injured. Poor placement of the bombs was another saving grace, as the negative camber of the bank redirected much of the blast away from the road and into the guardrail.

As soon as I received the message, I assembled all the remaining security contractors and briefed them on what had just occurred. I believe that when something goes wrong there's a possibility of things spiralling out of control. It was imperative that the guys remained calm, drove at a sensible speed and maintained spacing. There's no joy in surviving a roadside bomb only to be blown to shreds two kilometres down the road as you rejoice in your good fortune. In Iraq, this has happened many times.

I ordered the security teams at the dam to equip themselves and we waited in our vehicles until the mobile teams returned. This became standard operating procedure. It would minimise the time that guys would be vulnerable if stranded on the road following an attack.

After the teams returned we immediately debriefed the incident. It emerged that, while refuelling at a service station, the guys had been somewhat aggressive in posture. Rather than trying to blend in, they'd dominated the area. Secondly, all the vehicles had been positioned in the left lane. We changed this formation immediately. I was relieved that everyone was okay, and when we were tasked to return to Jordan the following day to pick up equipment, I re-adopted my usual position in the lead vehicle. Luckily the guys had the presence of mind to record the precise location of the incident, which was something the team leader had seen me do several days before, when the rear of our convoy had been shot at by two black BMWs.

I intended to investigate the bombing site, so I ordered all the vehicles to adopt a defensive perimeter 200 metres before it. My vehicle then continued for an additional 200 metres past the area and propped while I ran back in with a camera to record evidence of the attack. I was aware that insurgents sometimes placed new bombs in old holes, so I took a little extra care and crawled in on my stomach. I captured several images and collected half a dozen large pieces of jagged metal, which we used to identify the type of ordinance used. The expanding gases had distorted the guardrail and debris was spread over hundreds of metres. I couldn't believe that no-one had been killed. Diligent vehicle spacing was the main reason these guys survived. The following evening, after another seven hours on the roads, I gave the guys the pieces of ordinance that I had collected. Looking at their faces as they ran their fingers across the razor-sharp pieces of metal, I realised that everyone was now fully aware just how treacherous our job could be.

Sadly, one of the men who survived this incident was later killed by a roadside bomb, on the road between Shaibah and Baghdad in November 2006. Rich was 36 years old and the proud father of a young daughter. He will be remembered for his love of the England rugby team, his strong work ethic, humorous personality and, above all else, his ginger hair. He also beat me in a competition in the gym at Haditha Dam. Damn it, Rich, you selfish bastard! You didn't even give me the opportunity to reclaim the title. Wear the victory with pride, Big Red. You well and truly earned it. You are missed.

Our convoy continued south, past the Alasad turnoff, past the restive town of Hit and towards Highway One. A hundred kilometres passed without incident, and although the main highway still had the potential to be extremely dangerous, the team relaxed somewhat after leaving the crater-lined,
narrow confines of Highway Twelve. We had been tasked to locate potential refuelling stations and safe houses along the highway that led to the Jordanian border.

I don't believe there is such a thing as a ‘safe house' in Iraq. Insurgents had heavily penetrated the Iraqi police and security forces, so to rely on them was unwise. A smiling face could not be trusted; a person's true feelings were usually reflected elsewhere. It is easy to turn up the corners of one's mouth and show a few teeth, but the eyes rarely lie. Only a true professional can master this trick. The eyes are like the back cover of a novel – within seconds you have a very good idea of what the story is about. In close protection tasks, security teams are encouraged to wear sunglasses to prevent giving away information in this way. Even a man who is soft at heart can appear stone-cold behind an impenetrable pair of
Terminator
-like shades.

After another 90 kilometres our convoy passed what looked like a refuelling station on the southern side of the road. We recorded the information for confirmation at a later date. This area of Iraq appeared almost uninhabited. At this stage of the trip, that was fine by us. We wondered why an insurgent would waste a tank of petrol and travel all the way out here just to blow someone up. To us, it didn't make sense. That said, we would later survive days where up to six suicide-bombers rammed their explosive-laden vehicles into military and civilian security convoys on an eight-kilometre stretch of road between the Green Zone and Baghdad International Airport (BIAP). On days like that, the road would be littered with flesh and burnt-out vehicles. We heard a blast, saw the plume of smoke and eyed the charred remains of US soldiers. Sense or not, this was reality and part of daily life in Iraq.

With significant population centres towards the Jordanian border, we had to pay particularly close attention to
overpasses and parked vehicles. With the exception of a few overpasses that had been destroyed as a consequence of the initial air war, the six-lane carriageway was in pristine condition. We maintained a speed of 140 kmh, which was safe enough in winter. Such speeds would not be recommended or allowed in summer, as the roads become so hot that they begin to melt, which resulted in high-speed tyre blowouts.

These were quite common. One time, during the peak of summer, I was travelling along the scorching road from Baghdad to the southern Shaibah Log Base as the temperature climbed above 50 degrees Celsius. The lead driver, Si, was an exceptional talent behind the wheel. He was nicknamed ‘Fox' and was a dynamic young man with a wicked sense of humour. Fox was fiercely intelligent and his willingness to learn was inspirational. He was an Englishman, but I couldn't hold that against him! He didn't hail from a special forces background but he could and should have. It was no accident that I worked with Si in Iraq, Indonesia and Afghanistan. He was a brilliant operator. Wherever I went, I made sure that Mr Morale wasn't far behind. Si and his team leader, Joe, were two of the best guys I worked with in Iraq.

Si, Joe and I travelled many kilometres together around Iraq. I trusted them to stand with me, whether it was the harshness of the environment or its people that was trying to take our lives. Si was a skilled driver, which was lucky as seatbelts were rarely worn in non-armoured vehicles. We didn't need the extra encumbrances when trying to return fire in a contact. Armoured vehicles allow you more time to react, as small-arms fire is not a major concern – and so seatbelts are strongly advised. A head slamming into an armoured window can be lethal. The sickening crack of exploding bone is the most likely outcome.

I was the convoy commander in the lead vehicle. As we drove, I noticed a slight shudder radiating through the floor and steering wheel of the vehicle. Perhaps I did learn some
thing from my time as a motor mechanic all those years ago. I glanced over at the speedometer and asked Si to knock it back from 135 kmh to no more than 115 kmh, because ‘a front-tyre blowout at this speed would be the end of us'. Si and Joe laughed, but Si did back off the accelerator.

Within seconds, however, there was an almighty
bang
. Our vehicle veered to the right and then spun 180 degrees while still travelling in excess of 100 kmh. Si recalls locking eyes with the driver of the second vehicle, who was now doing his best to dodge this spinning silver blur in front of him.