We Got Him!

by Steve Russell

  If we could somehow identify and locate this second tier, then in theory, we could disrupt those organizing the attacks and perhaps find trails leading to the big guys. The problem was unearthing a way to expose their identity. With the brothers’ information and the intelligence already possessed, we had enough to get started.

  THE ENEMY IS STILL HERE

  He came with a reputation for many things, and I had heard all the horror stories. I first met Colonel James B. Hickey, our new brigade commander, just before we deployed. He hailed from Naperville, Illinois, and was a graduate of the Virginia Military Institute. He had been wildly successful as a commander of companies and a cavalry squadron, and he had earned early promotion three times. Sitting at a small table surrounded with peanut shells, loud music and conversation, he asked probing questions to ascertain key background information, and I answered him assertively over a thick steak at the Texas Roadhouse in Killeen, Texas.

  I left our meeting with the confidence that we were going to be commanded by a warrior. My evaluation was shaped long before we would work together. Therefore, I did not have the same shadow of foreboding I sensed in others. Perhaps it was because we were both in new assignments and were observing the same things concerning our commands and the enemy. We sat now at a different table, an elaborate furnishing with inlaid mosaics of exotic wood elegantly posed on the marble floor in one of Saddam’s palaces in southern Tikrit.

  “The enemy is still here. We are still at war,” Hickey pronounced with tilted head, furrowed brow, and eyes blinking only occasionally for emphasis.

  For an hour or more, Colonel Hickey outlined the strategy he would follow. I liked it. It may have been delivered with forcefulness that those of us serving under his command did not yet understand, but it made sense.

  “They are waiting to attack our supply columns, combat command posts, and compounds,” he prophesied. “We cannot allow them sanctuary among the population.”

  For Colonel Hickey, our mission was simple. It was to win the war. Thank God! While his mannerisms and management style were very much different from my own and often the butt of jokes, his beliefs were square on. I would grow to respect him, and in time, would do anything for him.

  “The mission will come first,” he continued in measured, articulate sentences with a bit of a cadence to them. “We must close in on the enemy and kill him. Reconnaissance will drive every action and will be the means by which to find him. We must stay alert and vigilant. Pass intelligence on to this command, to each other, and to your subordinate units, and keep it updated daily. When you make contact, you will send a contact report immediately. As you develop the situation, I expect a spot report. Later, I want a more detailed situation report. You must know this is how my mind works. It will never change.

  “You command your units. I expect you to equip, man, train, and support your soldiers. Don’t screw up the soldiers. We are the moral arbiters of our soldiers—tone and climate matter. Remain vigilant in this.

  “You will use the chain of command. Staff communication will deal with staff channels. Command information will flow between commanders. Keep your subordinates informed. Pass intelligence on to them. Allow them freedom of action. It is okay to be decentralized and to move along multiple axes. I will judge a young officer by his initiative. It will be the big discriminator, especially for our captains.

  “We are here for the long haul. We all wear stripes. Some wear the zebra stripes and some the tiger stripes. Be the tiger. Don’t let your soldiers be culled from the herd. Excellence and endurance will be the key. I will be out and about, not to micromanage but to gain awareness. I expect you to be tough on the men. Be tougher on the enemy.”

  With that, Colonel Hickey gave some instructions for an upcoming raid. Our brigade’s name was the “Raider Brigade.” The name was about to take on an entirely new meaning. Colonel Hickey wanted to stir things up a bit with a show of force on June 15. My troops were already on the move in many areas. The last several days had netted machine guns, mortars, ammunition, and more than a dozen Iraqis. Some would be released; some would be retained. I could not help but feel that we were netting some dolphins with the sharks, but as the enemy chose to hide among the populace, it was unavoidable.

  Some reasoned that our approach with civilians was uncivilized. It was not. People forget the laws of land warfare are designed to protect community and property from undue destruction. When the enemy refuses to observe the laws of warfare, it is they who are responsible for the human suffering inflicted. They, after all, are the ones using the innocent as a shield. It’s not possible, though, to convince the bleeding hearts back home, living in safety and comfort as they “armchair quarterback” our methods of separating the insurgent from the innocent population.

  In a city occupied during war, the people are the terrain. Buildings and land are less important than the citizenry. If the people are won in the type of warfare we were now fighting, then the war gets won. But blowhards in 5th Avenue suits and pantsuits will point political fingers at soldiers, castigating us for “aggravating” and “abusing” the population. Few of them have ever had to contend with easing the pain and suffering of innocents, fighting bad guys, maintaining the delicate structure of public works, and providing for the welfare of hundreds of thousands of people. These political pontiffs fail to recognize that sometimes, the most humane approach to ending suffering in a war is to administer a swift and fatal blow to the enemy in the most expedient manner possible.

  My biggest challenge was providing the manpower needed to defeat our enemies and protect the people. As debates raged back home regarding the sufficient number of troops, I covered a massive area and was responsible for the city of Tikrit and several of its surrounding villages. We accomplished this with just two companies of Bradleys, one company of Abrams tanks, some engineers, and a mere eleven rifle squads. Perhaps our ranks should have been filled with some of those politicians or Rumsfeld staffers who were convinced that we had adequate troops. No matter. A good soldier marches with the resources available to him.

  The big raid planned for June 15 had a silver lining. It had the potential of ferreting out some key objectives. The enemy was indeed still here. The night raid was to be a merger of my A Company troops under Captain Mark Stouffer in Auja and our Scout Platoon led by First Lieutenant Chris Morris. They would be attached to “Jack.”

  YOU DON’T KNOW JACK

  We first met “Jack” after his men replaced a similar Special Operations Forces (SOF) team conducting the early entry operations. I met him when he and Matt, his operations man, came into my command post to observe our intelligence. Mostly, he came to introduce himself. The juxtaposition of my wiry frame next to his massive one was almost comical. I extended a hand in welcome, and it was nearly swallowed by his. While he was only slightly taller than I, his shoulder width rivaled my height. His assured and confident demeanor was anything but arrogant. It was genuine confidence. He conversed in a respectful tone and demonstrated his willingness to collaborate with us.

  The SOF guys were, without argument, the best. It wasn’t about the mystery behind them. Some of us had known some of them from earlier days. I had served in the same battalion with one of Jack’s team members in Alaska in the 1980s. They were the best because they were the most fit, most dedicated, best-trained and best-supplied operators on the planet. They could do things that we could only dream about. These teams were commanded by majors, but rank was never part of the equation. Full names were almost never known to those outside the community unless you had previously served with one of them. Ranks were never used and were not necessary. Every man in the team had a job and was an expert in it.

  “My battalion is yours,” I offered. “Anything you need will be available to you. We’re all on the same team. I understand your mission will be different from ours and focused on specific targets in a broader area. But any time you are here, whatever we have will always be welcome and available to you.”
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  I had worked closely with Special Forces in Kosovo, Kuwait, and Afghanistan but had never worked directly with the SOF guys. Jack could sense that I was “friendly forces” to his team. It was the beginning of a friendship with his guys and a battle-bond few will understand. We discussed the latest news coming from our Iraqi informants plus my own assessment of the situation.

  “I think we’re fighting individuals organized in a layered structure,” I speculated, taking a dry-erase marker to a whiteboard. “I call it the ‘Three Tiers.’ The top tier is the ‘Deck of Cards’ guys: Saddam, his associates, and maybe the ‘Black List’ guys. The middle tier is the ‘Bodyguard’ group.”

  This was the structure I had formulated in my mind after my soirée with the two brothers several days before. There had to be a way to visualize the enemy so we could gain access to him.

  “This group is probably funded and inspired by the top tier, and a portion of them may even protect the top tier,” I continued. “I call the third group the ‘Trigger Pullers.’ These are the guys we are fighting on the streets and in ambushes. I believe that they are inspired and funded by the middle tier, perhaps even led by some of them.”

  As we discussed the “Three Tiers,” Jack interjected some thoughts of his own. We discussed the possible links and family relationships, though things at this stage were not nearly as clear as they would be in the very near future.

  “I need your Scout Platoon,” requested Jack. “We have a raid in Auja, and I would like them to help us hit a target we cannot cover alone.”

  As we looked at the area, it was obvious that this raid was focused on a big guy. When Jack identified the target, it was a big guy indeed.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” I assured him. “I plan to cover the ops of tomorrow night’s raid with A Company. They can handle the security cordon, and you guys can hit the inner cordon as needed. Just let us know what areas you need us to cover.”

  As Jack and I looked over the satellite imagery maps with Mike Rauhut and Brian Reed, my two majors, we pondered the two-square-mile village that had spawned Saddam Hussein. Its houses were well appointed, its occupants accustomed to luxury. Sitting on a western bank bluff on the Tigris River several kilometers south of Tikrit, Auja was in every way connected to Tikrit, except in privilege. According to Mahmood Neda al Nasiri, chief of the Nasir tribe, the area was simple farmland with a scattering of shacks when Saddam was born in the village. After Saddam’s rise to power, it became the fashionable village of the privileged elite.

  The plan was very straightforward. The SOF team would hit two houses on the east end of town believed to contain none other than Abid Hamid Mahmood al-Khatab, Saddam’s Presidential Secretary, known as the Ace of Diamonds on the deck of cards. Chris Morris’ Scout Platoon would augment them. Mark Stouffer’s A Company would provide cordon, and more of my battalion assets would be brought to bear as needed: mortars, reserves, and aviation assets pushed down to me from Colonel Hickey. It would be the first of many raids with Jack’s SOF team and the first of many raids in Auja. We would come to know them all very well.

  DOLPHINS AND SHARKS

  As Mark Stouffer’s A Company soldiers already occupied the sports complex in the village of Auja, it would not be very difficult to gain the element of surprise. It would take just minutes to clamp down on the village. As we formulated plans, my majors readied the assets for the raid while we conducted combat operations throughout the city.

  I felt no real anxiety over the raid. We had great soldiers and great equipment and we would be working alongside the finest soldiers in the Special Operations community. I felt excitement at finally being able to strike the enemy. For weeks, he had hit our battalion on his terms. Tonight would be on ours. From this point on, I determined we would never look back.

  Dusk, there’s something about dusk. The air begins to show mercy, the heat begins to subside, and the smells begin to retreat. The Cummins engines of the Hummers pattered. The diesel fumes mixed with the scent of oil on our weapons, the tang of canvas seats, and the stench of dust and body odor. Sweat continued to roll down every channel not matted with clothing. We rolled.

  I adjusted the FBCB2 on the vehicle. This was a device that displayed every leader vehicle in my command and within our division. It worked most of the time and provided us with enough awareness of each other to be practical for speed of action and for “balling up” on a fight when contact was made. We were the only division to employ this new technology allowing us to “see” one another over great distances on a computer screen. Looking like an oversized fish finder, it had a bright display that had to be toned down so we didn’t light up like a Christmas tree. Round “bubble-like” icons represented vehicles with varying symbols for the type of unit. I could see Mark’s Bradleys. They were coiled and ready to spring.

  We were a peculiar assortment of wheeled vehicles. I had a couple of our stripped command Humvees. Chris’ scout Hummers were hardtoppers with machine guns and grenade launchers mounted on top, but they were the unarmored type. All of our Hummers were unarmored at this stage of the war. Jack’s Hummers were different from ours. They looked like what we would do to ours if we had the resources with many extras not for publication.

  Each group traveled on its own route with its own timing. The wind raced through our clothing, evaporating traces of sweat. Our eye protection had been adjusted with clear lenses for night. It protected our eyes from the wind but gave us a bug-eyed appearance. We scanned every rooftop, balcony, dark alley, and open lane as we raced through the city of Tikrit toward the objective. Rifles bristled from various corners of each vehicle as soldiers’ helmets swiveled with the Cyclops eye of PVS-14b night vision goggles. The bubbles in the fish finder showed a converging of forces. I could see Colonel Hickey’s command element closing in as well. Mark Stouffer’s “Gators” of A Company had already grabbed the four corners of the town.

  With the anticipation of a roller coaster that has come to the top of its climb and reached the tipping point, we swooped into town. Whatever happened at this point was simply going to happen. All the plans were committed. Only training, reflex, and action mattered now. As commanders, we could only anticipate and adjust. One could never hesitate.

  The feel of pavement under my boots was much different from the shimmying of a speeding Hummer. I felt comfortable now. Though my radios would be limited on the ground, I knew I could call Mike Rauhut, who was standing nearby. He could relay any message I needed.

  The flash-crack of explosions ripped through the heavy night air. Jack’s guys were hitting the residence of Abid Hamid Mahmood al-Khatab, Saddam’s Presidential Secretary. He was a significant objective, holding a position similar to our White House Chief of Staff. In fact, because of his importance, he was listed as the “Ace of Diamonds” on the deck of cards, number four behind Saddam and his two sons. Brief messages passed on the radio in response to the flash-bang grenades tossed by Jack’s men. We watched the corners and the streets. My scouts under Chris Morris hit the second target simultaneously. It was going well. Flames began to lick out from the corners of Mahmood’s house. Now all was silent.

  Jack’s men and my scouts came out with a couple of captives each. After a while, I relayed to Mark that the teams and targets were secure and ordered him to continue the cordon. Colonel Hickey and I conferred on the ground. Jack informed me matter-of-factly that Mahmood was not home but may be in the neighborhood. Since the cordon was in place, it made good sense to clear the area. If Mahmood tried to flee, he would likely be in the immediate area as nothing had moved since our arrival into town.

  Colonel Hickey ordered more air support for me to replace that already fluttering overhead. The sophisticated thermal systems on an Apache helicopter could help us track any bad guys running from house to house. I ordered Mark to bring up his reserve forces; we would need the infantry if it became necessary to secure a city block. After all was assembled, it was time to determine who was innocent and who was
not.

  I was concerned that we would become targets if we lingered too long, but I had the confidence of having very good security. The night dragged on. More Iraqi males were flushed from homes for questioning. Women and children were separated. Jack’s interrogator went to work. Sharks were kept; dolphins were released. Over fifty men in all were detained for questioning. Jack took a man with a Syrian passport. We nabbed Abdullah al-Kaleb, a Fedayeen general involved in coordinating recent insurgent activity. We also took two men believed to be involved in the CMIC attack from earlier in the month. We missed the Ace of Diamonds, Abid Mahmood, but all in all, it was a very good night.

  ACE OF DIAMONDS

  The collarbones suffered most. The armored vest with counterbalancing ballistic plates in front and back pressed into them. Hours of wearing the kit with senses on high alert added to the fatigue. In the early hours of the morning, I unclipped the rifle from my vest, dropped my helmet on my cot, ripped open the vest’s Velcro flaps, and shed my armored exoskeleton weighted with rifle and pistol ammo, water, a small radio, mini binos, and other assorted items needed by a commander. I was soaked to the bone. I ran my fingers through soggy, matted hair to see if my scalp had any feeling left. My lungs, freed from containment, instinctively expanded with newfound freedom.

  I wandered toward the operations center sequestered on the south side of the elaborate Salah ad Din main palace building. It was the primary structure in a complex of a half dozen and shaped like Solomon’s Temple. It was very majestic, very rectangular, very sturdy, very marbled and very ornately decorated with carved teak paneling, massive columns and stained glass. I later learned from the locals that the temple sat on the exact site of a Crusader stronghold until it was taken by Salah ad Din, the Islamic warrior and hero for whom the province was named. Now it housed part of the 22nd Infantry Regiment of the United States Army.