Insider Threat: The Mogadishu Diaries 1992-1993

by E. Clay

  I saw Crocket on the way to the Operation Center and she told me that Major Lewis was looking for me and that I should report to him ASAP.

  “Lord, you said you would come at the midnight hour. Well its11:59 right now,” I said to myself as I marched to an almost assured catastrophic setback.

  I saw the Major sitting behind his desk. I was nervous, but a controlled nervous.

  “Major Lewis. I heard you were looking for me,” I said as I stood just outside his office.

  Immediately he got up from his chair and reached for a cigarette. He always did that when he was angry.

  “So. Goofing off at the University?”

  How did he know that? I immediately thought. Confession time.

  “Sir, I can explain …”

  “Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking to you,” the Major said as he lit his cigarette.

  The Major sat back down in his chair and started blowing smoke rings and continued speaking.

  “It’s a good thing I ran into Dr. Gaye, otherwise I wouldn’t have known where you were. If he ever sends you on another personal errand again, you let me know. You don’t work for him and I don’t appreciate you being his errand boy. You serve one master.”

  Whoa. Change of plan. Major Lewis had his own version explaining my absence. I was more than happy for him to be misled.

  “Gunnery Sergeant Thompson, I really don’t like you and I could care less if you don’t do a damn thing all day, but you will make my coffee in the morning. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said completely relieved.

  “And another thing. Them Counterintelligence cowboys were snooping around looking for you. Go see what they want…now. The less I see of them, the better.”

  I left the office relieved and renewed, not the least bit fazed by the Major’s rant. Did I let him get away with punking me with the coffee making bit? Yeah I did. But I was too focused on my second chance to worry about that. I still had my stripes and I learned a valuable lesson. As I left the Operations Center, I began to wonder how Dr. Gaye knew to cover for me, and how he knew I was at the University. As I walked towards my quarters, I looked up at the Son and said “Thank you.”

  Chapter 12

  Sex, Drugs, and Classified Material

  22 February 1993

  It’s amazing how you can go from hearing your death knell, to the status quo of everyday life within a span of a few minutes. I often wished that I had a vice to chill me out at times. But, I wasn’t a drinker, drugs were illegal and smoking interfered with sports.

  I began to wonder why Counterintelligence wanted to see me. Maybe they wanted a report of atmospherics on the male Somali linguists. From my many visits with the male interpreters, I never once suspected anyone of being a threat of any kind. Most of them had their own issues, but one issue that was a problem for everyone was the lack of respect that some troops displayed towards the locals while on patrol. The type of abuse ranged from manhandling women and children who got too close to the vehicle to urinating in water bottles and giving it to the locals. Another issue that seemed to trouble the linguists was the issue of Challenge and Passwords. Command policy stated the interpreters did not have “a need to know.” If a gate guard caught an interpreter sneaking back on the compound, he would shout out a Challenge word. The individual would then be required to authenticate with a designated Password. At times roving patrols interpreted a lack of response as a bona fide threat, resulting in a shooting fatality. All the interpreters felt policy should grant them knowledge of Challenge and Passwords, despite the decree that prohibited them from sneaking off base to visit family members. JTF policy prohibited family contact because the militias could use intimidation tactics against the family to influence the interpreters to pass bad intelligence.

  I knew there must be a format to submit a Counterintelligence Report, but I didn’t know it. I used the template that all Marines were taught in boot camp. SMEAC.

  Situation Mission Execution

  Admin and Logistics

  Command and Signal

  It was not a perfect fit for the information I wanted to convey but it was better than nothing. I composed the report on a computer in the Operations Center during lunch and printed it out. For the header and footer I marked “For Official Use Only.” I folded in half, put it in my cargo pocket and headed to their location, the vacated supply tent.

  As I headed to the CI tent, a Hummer beeped me from behind and made me jump almost a foot in the air.

  “Gunnery Sergeant Thompson. Just the man I was looking for,” Master Gunnery Sergeant Pritchard said with a cigar hanging out the corner of his mouth.

  “I was just on my way over to see you,” I replied as I opened the door and climbed into the Hummer.

  “I figured as much Gunny. But we don’t have a permanent address. You could say we move around a lot.”

  After a brief drive to the other side of the compound near the old U.Ss Embassy, I followed Pritchard into another logistic tent that appeared unmanned from the outside.

  Once again, I was impressed by this mobile command center that always reminded me of the 60’s show Mission Impossible.

  “Pull up a chair, we have a couple of questions for you,” Pritchard said as he put out his cigar on the heel of his boot.

  As soon as I sat down, another Gunnery Sergeant sat across from me. I sensed a feeling of hostility and I didn’t know why. Pritchard addressed him as Gator and his presence put me on the defensive.

  “We were looking at your service records and it concerns us that your clearance and access far exceeds the requirements of your military occupational specialty (MOS). You are a field wireman. Is that correct?” asked Pritchard.

  “Yes. I am a 2512,” I responded as I leaned forward in my chair.

  Gator grabbed a manual sitting on the table and held it in the air for a few seconds then he dropped it back onto the table making a thud.

  “According to the MOS manual, you should have a Secret clearance. But you have a Top-Secret with RODCA and NOTTAL access,” Gator responded, breaking his silence.

  I felt like I was in the middle of a “Good Cop Bad Cop” interrogation. But I was relieved because the concern they raised could be explained easily.

  “My clearance. It’s like an albatross around my neck.”

  “Can you explain?” asked Pritchard.

  “Do you want the short answer, or the Disco Remix version?” I responded casually.

  “Humor us. Give us the low down dirty. The whole story,” Gator said as he leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head.

  “My first tour in the Corps was with an Infantry unit on Okinawa, Japan back in 1979. I had never seen so many professional criminals in all of my life. In fact, I would say the entire company operated like a mafia or an organized crime outfit. I was attached to Charlie Company, but our nickname was Kilo Company (narcotics). Almost all the officers and senior enlisted ran some sort of an illegal operation. Everyone was getting paid big time. The Staff Sergeant who was in charge of my shop ran a prostitution ring on the island. He pimped a large stable of military wives to rich Japanese businessmen in downtown Naha.

  “You are boring me, Thompson. This is about your clearance, remember?” said Gator as he twiddled his pen between his fingers.

  “Let me finish. Well, the S-3 Operations Officer ran a drug smuggling ring. He had a sophisticated operation that probably made him a rich man. He would send his troops to the Philippines to purchase large quantities of cocaine and marijuana. The drugs were then shipped back to Okinawa via a Defense Classified Courier Service called ARFCOS from Clark Air Force base in the Philippines. ARFCOS was a distribution center for highly classified material and its packages were not subjected to custom inspections. All the packages were received by the unit Classified Material Control Center (CMCC). When I reported into the unit, I immediately heard of two Marines who fled the island and never returned. One of the Marines was named Whittaker. Whitaker an
d his co-worker worked in the CMCC and took off with some drugs and cash. The S-3 decided to replace the two deserters with Marines who were drug-free to minimize the risk of a repeated incident. The company had an unofficial urinalysis test to see who was clean. Over 85% of the troops in our unit popped on something. I got tapped for a CMCC slot because I was one of the few who didn’t pop on the urinalysis and plus they had an overage of wiremen. Lance Corporal Dempsey got the other slot. When I was reassigned to the CMCC, they gave me an interim Top Secret that became final nine months later. My unit also read me into various special access programs after my clearance had become adjudicated. In my thirteen years in the Corps, I have never worked in my MOS as a wireman because whenever a unit picks me up, all they see is my clearance and special access. I always ended up in their CMCC babysitting classified.”

  “That is why I carry a Top Secret clearance and special access tickets. In fact, my current job here in Mogadishu is Classified Material Control Chief. Like I said…an albatross around my neck.”

  “So you knew about the drug operation and the prostitution network?” asked Pritchard with a look of concern.

  “Yes and no. The vault room had a secondary function as a designated evidence room for confiscated drugs and paraphernalia. So having drugs in the safes was standard procedure. Also, the hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash was ostensibly money seized from drug raids. It made sense to me, and the fact that officers were involved put my mind to rest. I later found out that everyone knew the deal, but there was top cover from the highest levels. If one of the officers thought you were a threat, you were transferred to a remote unit up north.

  “But out of all that crime and corruption, there was one thing that bothered me the most.”

  “Tell me. What would that be?” Gator commented sarcastically.

  “My Staff Sergeant was a wife beater, and he bragged about it often. It still bothers me when I think about it.”

  I realized that the diatribe I just ended was probably more than they wanted to hear, but I had bottled that experience inside and never told anyone. As I was speaking, I could visualize everything, like I was reliving it. I needed a release and I had a captive audience.

  “So how do you explain being read into NOTTAL and RODCA? I know some veteran CI guys who don’t even have that access,” Gator asked.

  “When I was a Sergeant at 29 Palms, one of my accounts was the 13th Counterintelligence Team. They always visited the CMCC to pick up their daily traffic. Some of it was RODCA and NOTTAL, so I had to be read in because we stored it in our vault. I know what RODCA stands for but what does NOTTAL mean?” I asked.

  Gator looked at Pritchard and laughed aloud. “NOTTAL…NOT ALL bitches get to read it,”

  Gator said laughing at his own punch line.

  I sat there looking at this moron with my mouth open. If he represented the CI community, I knew why Major Lewis disliked CI.

  After a few more questions, Pritchard concluded the interview and things calmed down. I went to shake Gator’s hand but he placed his hand in his pocket. On the way out, I heard Gator whisper to Pritchard.

  “I told you he wouldn’t have it, I told you.”

  I immediately turned around and confronted Gator.

  “Have what?” I said annoyed.

  “Master Guns bet me that you would have a report on the interpreters, but I guess you forgot, huh?”

  His condescending attitude needed to be checked. I had to respond.

  “You don’t know anything about me. And if you think you are intimidating, you’re not. You’re pathetic. Just keep pushing me, okay? I said as I walked closer to him.

  “So you’re a big man now?” Gator replied as he got even closer to me.

  “Size has nothing to do with it. You probably hear that a lot,” I said as I backed away.

  I looked at Pritchard who just watched me and Gator go back and forth. I then reached in my cargo pocket and placed the Counterintelligence Report on the table. I apologized to Pritchard for losing my cool and then I ducked out of the tent.

  I let Major Lewis punk me that morning. Gator was not going to punk me for a second time in one day. I didn’t know what impression I made on CI, but I didn’t care.

  Chapter 13

  The Positives of Negativity

  22 February 1993

  As I left the CI tent, I headed to MARFOR where I was billeted. I knew I had a debt of gratitude I needed to settle. My thirteen-year career was still intact because of Dr. Gaye. Without his quick thinking and intervention, I would be facing a court martial. He had a private tent in the Officer’s Row.

  “Knock, Knock,” I said as I stood outside his tent. “Who is there?” Dr. Gaye replied from inside the tent.

  “Sir, it’s Gunnery Sergeant Thompson and I have a Public Service Announcement from the Commanding General,” I said at the position of attention in my boot camp voice.

  Dr. Gaye unzipped his tent and stuck only his head out and smiled.

  “And what might that be, Gunnery Sergeant Thompson?”

  “Sir, beginning at 0800 tomorrow, forced fun is in effect for the duration of the deployment by order of General Wilhelm.”

  “So…fun on the job is now mandatory. What an excellent concept. Any other instructions?”

  “Yes sir. Happiness is optional but not required.” Dr. Gaye cracked a smile and invited me in.

  Inside his tent was a mini office with a satellite transceiver hooked up to a medium-sized generator. I think his tent was the only tent with power. There was a folding chair to the right of his desk and he told me to take a seat.

  “Dr. Gaye…ah…”

  “You mean Terry, remember,” he replied.

  “Oh yes. Thank you for covering for me. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Somehow I get the impression a girl fits somewhere in the equation,” Dr. Gaye surmised.

  “Not just any girl. It’s deeper than that,” I commented.

  “Somali women are of a different breed. They are very noble…women of character,” Dr. Gaye said.

  I never told him it was a Somali woman. It was as if he had foreknowledge of my actions. I didn’t think of challenging him, because I trusted Dr. Gaye implicitly.

  The next question I asked him unsettled him at first but just for a split second.

  “So what did you do when you were working for the embassy here? Were you a diplomat or something?”

  “I had a great deal of roles and responsibilities. I mainly worked out of the Public Affairs Office. Basically, I shuffled a lot of paperwork.

  “Enough about me. Let’s talk about you. How is the Marine Corps these days? Years ago, the Corps had a reputation for being the least progressive as far as race relations were concerned.”

  I heard stories of the Marine Corps’ attitude towards minorities back in the fifties, but that was long before my time. I gave Dr. Gaye my perspective.

  “I came in the Corps in 1979, and our drill instructors told us that some of us were light green and some of us were a darker green. But we were all green.”

  “Where did you hear that?” I asked Dr. Gaye’s demeanor became somewhat deflated then almost fervent within seconds.

  “It’s not what I heard. It’s what I witnessed.” “Oh. Were you in the Corps?”

  “No. I went to a University in France, but my older brother Fredrick joined the Marines in 1959. After an interview with an Officer Selection Board, the board recommended he enlist instead. The board told him that they had a mandate to uphold the morale of Marines serving, especially during difficult times.”

  “Wow. So what did he do?”

  “He came home very discouraged and withdrawn. My father told Fred that if he could make it as an officer in the Marines, he could make it anywhere. My brother became even more determined. He successfully arranged a second meeting with his Officer Selection Officer. This meeting was prompted by a call from a local City Alderman who belonged to the same Masonic Lodge as my father.” />
  “I guess that’s the way it was back then. What was the board’s decision?”

  “My brother wanted to become a pilot so he was subjected to a battery of tests to include physical examinations. He had one of the highest scores the board had seen on their watch. They made him retake the exams a second time. Fred performed even better the next time around, with higher scores across the board.”

  “So they had to take him,” I asserted.

  “They denied him on the basis of being color blind,” Dr. Gaye sighed.

  “Man. Did he know that before applying?”

  “Fredrick had perfect vision. He was not color blind but that was the final adjudication. He became a logistics officer instead.”

  “So what was it like to be a Black officer back then?”

  “Fredrick loved the Marine Corps despite some resistance from a few White officers. I remember when he called Dad from jail after he had reported to his first duty assignment at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.”

  I was very intrigued by this real life story. A chapter of the Corps I was only vaguely familiar with.

  “Second Lieutenant Gaye was cashing his first paycheck at the base Credit Union and the teller phoned security when he presented his military ID card. The teller had never seen a Black officer and assumed he was impersonating one. The Military Police swarmed the inside of the credit union and accosted him in front of everyone. It was an ugly scene, and my brother didn’t go quietly. Unfortunately, Second Lieutenant Gaye had not checked into his new unit so he had no one to vouch for him. He spent a night in custody but he was released the next day. The Provost Marshal made a few phone calls to Headquarters Marine Corps to verify Fredrick’s rank. That was a setback for him and I didn’t think he would recover from it. But he did. He retired in 1979 as a Major. A very proud Major.”

  “Are you close with your brother?”

  “Very close. His struggles became my motivation and inspiration. Because of him, I have so much respect for the Marine Corps. I buried Fredrick three years ago; he developed a heart condition and died after a lengthy illness. I miss him very much.”

  Dr. Gaye was pleased that I had a positive experience in the Marines and that I had good things to report in the race department.