You might have thought we were exhibits at a zoo. Soldiers in clean, even pressed uniforms stared unbelievingly as though we were hideous bog creatures rising from the vapor, reeking with the stench of salt and sourness. Last in line behind a dozen of my men, I blended in with everyone else. My kit was the same and I fought with a rifle, the commander’s pistol merely a backup. Suddenly, some spoon starts ripping into my soldiers.
“You guys can’t be in here,” declared Sergeant Spoon.
“What’s the matter, Sergeant?” asked Specialist Jeff Barnaby, one of my troops.
“No crew served weapons, no grenades, no AT4s, and no enemy weapons!” he itemized. He might as well have added, “No dogs and no infantrymen.”
“We didn’t know, Sergeant . . . ” Barnaby explained.
“You do now!” he interrupted.
That was enough. “What’s the problem, Sergeant?” I asked, stepping up the line.
“Who are you?” He smirked. He didn’t see my rank under the body armor and fighting kit or the one covered by burlap strips on my helmet. He also missed the black oak leaf I had pinned on the center of my camouflaged, armored vest.
“I’m the commander of 1-22 Infantry, and these are my soldiers.”
“Sorry, sir, I thought you were one of the men,” he stumbled, paying me a great compliment. “Sir, we can’t have hand grenades and such in here.”
“Sergeant, my men just want something cold to drink,” I reasoned. “There are no signs or rules that I can see, and I do believe my men know the difference between the enemy and you. You need not worry about them employing their weapons in a mess hall.”
He tried to come back with something lame, but I cut him off. I told him that I would supervise my soldiers and we would soon be on our way. Thinking the worst was over, we navigated the line and sat down for a quick lunch. I started for the coolers to get a drink, when I was intercepted by a female sergeant first class.
“Sir, you need to clear your weapon,” she demanded.
“My weapons are clear,” I answered flatly with some irritation.
“Not your pistol.” She pointed in a game of “gotcha.”
“Sergeant, the pistol is clear.” I contained myself.
“Sir, there is a magazine in the weapon,” she continued with the confidence of a smart-ass.
“That doesn’t mean the weapon is not clear,” I answered, as I pulled the magazine out to avert more conflict. My soldiers had orders to keep magazines in their weapons at all times to counter any infiltrators who might slip into camp. I would never allow our guys to be shot up with no weapon or ammo at hand because of some stupid peacetime mentality.
“You need to go outside to clear it,” she said, overstepping.
“And you need to get lost,” I quipped. “I told you that the weapon is clear, and that means the weapon is clear. In all of my years, I never thought I would see the day a Sergeant First Class would deploy to war to serve as a milk monitor.”
The sergeant stamped off, no doubt to find her boss. I took a cold drink from the cooler and had sat down to my plate when out came the head spoon, a warrant officer, to set me straight. I ambushed him before he could open his mouth.
Standing up, I said, “Chief, don’t even start. You and I will just say things we will both regret. I’m sure you’re a fine man and just trying to do your job. We are combat soldiers just looking to eat in peace and then we’ll go. Now, please, leave us alone.”
“All right, sir,” he replied calmly and professionally, and then walked away.
We finished our meal, but the incident was far from over. That evening, the division Chief of Staff and my former brigade commander, Don Campbell, called me. “Steve, what happened at the mess hall today?”
I explained what happened, expecting to get flamed. Instead, Colonel Campbell simply said, “Stay away from the mess hall. You are too important out on the streets to have something like this slow you down. Keep away from it.”
“Yes, sir,” I acknowledged. “Does that apply to my men?”
“No. Just to you,” he said calmly, only half concealing his amusement.
“Roger, sir.” I acknowledged again.
“OK. I’ve made my call. I am sure we won’t have any more trouble at the mess hall. You are doing great work out there. Keep it up.”
The next day, signs with bold lettering appeared at the mess hall entry: NO CREW SERVED WEAPONS. NO HAND GRENADES. NO AT4s, etc. They might as well have added, NO REGULARS. My soldiers asked me if I had seen the signs. Not thinking, I said, “Yes, how ridiculous. Those things just need to go away.” A commander always has to be careful about what he says.
About 2:00 a.m. a few days later, I came in from patrol and availed myself of the facilities in the latrine connected to my private hooch. Behind the toilet rested the sign from the mess hall. I burst into laughter. When I went into ops center for an update, the soldiers all looked at me sheepishly as if they had no idea how it got there.
I did not set foot in the mess hall again until Thanksgiving morning. I had been invited to sing at General Odierno’s prayer breakfast where he and Chaplain Gil Richardson encouraged us and articulated the many blessings for which we had to be thankful. In order to obey the contradictory orders to attend the prayer breakfast and to stay away from the mess hall, I had only coffee.
6. TYRANT
THE RACE
We took advantage of the Thanksgiving lull to further refine some of our intelligence with observation outposts and informants. During this time, we found evidence of weapons caches being brought in for future use. On November 28, we found another SA-7 anti-aircraft missile as well as 35 boxes of mortar fuses. We swept the same locations the following day and found more than five hundred 120mm mortar rounds still in their packing crates. This many mortar rounds would have been sufficient to level much of Tikrit. These munitions had been cleverly hidden in the municipal trash dump on the west side of the city.
December 2003 arrived with gentle rains that, no matter how they tried, failed to wash away the dust and filth of the land. The nasty weather reduced the number of attacks on our forces, but the attacks did not stop altogether. A roadside bomb planted on the main street in downtown Tikrit heralded the first of December. An alert but unarmed security guard observed as a man pulled up in a sedan and waddled to the median cradling a heavy five-liter vegetable oil tin in his arms. The car sped away, and the man ran into a back alley. The guard called the police who, in turn, called our forces. They also flagged down Captain Brad Boyd of C Company who was on patrol.
Brad and his men detonated the bomb. It exploded powerfully in the center of town. No one was harmed, and no major damage was done except to the brickwork on the median. Thank God for Tikrit’s wide city streets and the alert security man who potentially saved the lives of both troops and civilians. I rewarded him with a new 9mm Glock 17 pistol for his efforts.
It was December 2, and information continued to flow. A hot tip produced some HOT missiles manufactured jointly by the French and Germans. They were wire-guided and similar to our TOW anti-tank missiles. The cache contained 20 of these powerful weapons. It was a relief to find them before they found us. The influx of anti-aircraft and anti-tank missiles unmistakably validated Saddam Hussein’s ability to garner steady support and impressive weaponry.
We were now beginning to break through the street fighters and hit the big guys again. Our earlier pressure had caused them to strike back, but now we were inside their group. As we set about our tasks on December 3, John, Doug, and Kelly from the SOF team paid us a visit to discuss cell networks and a raid proposal. There was no doubt that we were winning the connect-the-dots game when we discovered the correlation between the Musslits and the Ghanis, Rashids, and Khatabs. John had intelligence that could possibly net Mohammed if he was being harbored by these friends and associates. As I listened to his proposition, Clay Bell chimed in with some interesting connections to various key players.
The s
cope of the raid we were planning was more massive than any attack we had ever attempted. It had to be. Mohammed could find refuge among a multitude of drivers, business associates, and brothers who were only too eager to hide him. We knew several of these players lived in Tikrit and its suburbs. The big question was this: Could we snare them all in a single massive raid?
I felt we could. John felt we could. The assets were available, and as long as there were no more than three or four groupings of targets, it would be possible to hit multiple structures in close proximity. Surprise would be crucial to success, but the very scope of the assault was bound to create some momentum. It would be a race against time to act on the information before the enemy’s network could adjust and react. If we moved swiftly and remained alert, we could very possibly catch Mohammed al-Musslit firmly ensconced in some place of refuge with a false sense of security.
Our targets for the immediate raid would center on Mohammed’s business partner who owned the cement store on Highway 1. His name was Thamir al-Asi. Mohammed, we learned, would frequently meet Thamir at his place of business to coordinate attacks, provide funds, and focus the insurgent effort. They also played cards and dominoes there.
“We also want to hit Musslit’s brother, Birhan,” revealed John. “We have a fix on his location. We don’t know how much he is directly involved, but he is the money guy. He lives behind the government offices south of the hospital.”
“Do you think Mohammed is there?” I asked John.
“I don’t think so, but it’s hard to say,” he speculated. “I think he stays with friends in Tikrit. His wife and kids are here. Our informant, Bassam, who is the cousin of the Director of Justice, thinks he might be in Samarra.”
“Wasn’t Bassam Musslit’s driver?” asked Clay Bell.
“That’s the guy,” confirmed John. “He’s singing pretty good right now. We don’t know where all of this is heading, but with what you’ve picked up on the networks in Cadaseeyah and with what we are getting, it is all starting to come together on finding Musslit. And speaking of drivers, we got a lead on his new one, a guy named Wa’ad Abdullah Haras. He lives here.” John pointed as Doug oriented the satellite imagery of Tikrit that we used. “If we can grab him, we think we can find Musslit. That’s why we want to hit all these targets at once.”
“OK.” I reviewed aloud. “So we’ve got al-Asi in the 40th Street neighborhood, Wa’ad’s house is by the Birthday Palace, and Birhan’s house is between the Fruit Loop Apartments and the hospital.”
“That’s pretty much it,” John answered. “We’re also trying to run down a location of Musslit’s hooker. Nothing yet—but we do know Wa’ad has a sister in Cadaseeyah. We might go after that, too. Your information on the Rashids makes sense. It’s in the exact same area,” John continued. “Or we might do a follow-on raid based on what we get tonight.”
“Maybe we hit even more, John.” I added. “If we are going to go after Wa’ad’s house in Rashid’s neighborhood, let’s take out the Khader targets as well. They’re right there. We’ve been tracking them since October, and they’re connected to the same people.” Clay Bell and Bryan Luke showed him where Abdel Khader, Kamil al-Awayes, Ayman Hameed Bardee, and Thamer Jasim’s houses were.
“Sounds good to me, but we may need to get confirmation on Wa’ad’s sister’s house and other possible locations first. We’ll take Thamir al-Asi and the driver but could use some of your guys to help secure the area,” John informed. “You got the Cadaseeyah targets, and if you could take Birhan that would be great. And any targets that spring up we’ll just regroup as needed.”
“‘Comanche’ goes with you, John,” I informed. “I’ll put ‘Gator’ on Birhan. ‘Cobra’ will hit the Cadaseeyah targets with ‘Cougar.’” We set the time for late evening on the 3rd, and the raiding would continue into the early morning of the 4th.
What unfolded that night was a mixed success in our minds but later proved to be so much more. We couldn’t find Musslit’s driver, Wa’ad, who was the main objective of the raid, though we did nab his father and son. Maybe that would help. Still, we did get Birhan Ibrahim Omar al-Musslit, the third Musslit brother of Mohammed in as many weeks. We found him at home with his wife and daughter. We also found an interesting diary kept by his daughter detailing some of Birhan’s activity since the invasion.
In the north, Brad’s “Cobras” and Jon’s “Cougars” searched a possible Wa’ad house but found nothing. The same could not be said of Thamir al-Asi. John’s men and my scouts under Chris Morris caught Thamer along with his two sons, Amir and Ahmed.
After hours of searching these targets, a spinoff developed. John now wanted to search Asi’s cement business on Highway 1. No one had been there since curfew the night before, and it was all locked up. I called Mark Stouffer’s men to cordon the area while John and I set up shop in the parking lot. My men pulled security as his went in with crowbars and a tactical rotary saw to use on a safe they had spotted. Since al-Asi and Birhan were financiers, we could only guess what might be secured inside.
An ancient security guard was found in the building. John had an interrogator on his team named Eric who began to question the old man. His connection with Mohammed al-Musslit was readily apparent. Inside, crowbars smashed, doors popped open, and saw blades whirled. Out came one of John’s SOF guys cradling a small safe. As quickly as we had ransacked the cement store, we tore down the operation and left. Now it was time to connect the dots to the targets we had captured.
We were exhausted. While the raids had lasted nearly nine hours, our men had been patrolling and raiding for more than twenty-four consecutive hours. Yet, we pressed forward. As the day unfolded, we were inundated with an abundance of information. Our teams regrouped and refit, firm in our conviction that hours mattered. Our response and alertness to details mattered. Our ability to quickly reach exposed targets mattered. The excitement fueled us, driving us to what we had been pursuing for six months.
As the SOF guys worked through the new captives, Colonel Hickey and I reviewed the bidding ourselves. Hickey was pleased with the scope of the night’s raid, which he had dubbed “Raider Forest.” Hickey joined us on the Birhan capture and was taking in all of the intel that we were, using his battalions to assist John’s SOF team with potential follow on raids in Bayjii and Samarra. Thamir al-Asi and his cement store certainly filled in a lot of blanks for us: the ties to the money, the roadside bombs, and the rendezvous point for covert conspiracy. It made perfect sense in retrospect but left me with a deep sense of frustration. Why hadn’t we seen it earlier? The enemy had been meeting right under our noses, hiding in plain sight.
As the swamp continued to recede, there was an escalation of unusual events while we focused intently on Mohammed al-Musslit and his driver, Wa’ad. Captain Mitch Carlisle, one of our battle captains, expressed it most succinctly: “Every day in Iraq is the strangest day of my life.” December 4 most assuredly fell into that category. We received a call from our higher headquarters that a soldier’s mother was at the division gate of the massive palace compound. We were told she had traveled from the States representing an anti-war group and had demanded to speak to her daughter. It was being covered by a number of reporters. I said, “You’ve got to be kidding!” They were not.
The soldier was from one of the divisional support units. We were instructed to ignore her mother and the reporters should we happen upon them in town. As the mother and cohort were not demonstrating, we did. I began to imagine a weird exchange between soldier and mother: “Mom, would you please go home? You are embarrassing me in front of my friends!” I never cease to be amazed at human interaction. It was one of the most bizarre episodes in Iraq I can remember.
Even as we went about routine combat patrols and raid preparations and dealt with an occasional off-the-wall distraction, we were primed to go to the next level. Wa’ad Abdullah Haras had dodged the net we cast the night before and might still be in the Tikrit area. John’s team was following lead
s to Samarra. I received a note from John on December 5, 2003, as we were unable to meet face-to-face. In it, he laid out some information gleaned from Thamir al-Asi and especially his son, Amir, who was apparently working hand in hand with Bassam:
Gents,
Here is the latest on the interrogations . . . on Thamir Al Asi (and sons), Birhan Ibrahim Omar Al Muslit, and Bassam Latif: Bassam and Thamir’s oldest son, Amir, are now cooperating fully as they now have realized that if they do not help us capture Mohammed, then they will never get out of prison. Amir ran the bulk of his father’s businesses for Mohammed and is aware of all of Mohammed’s business and Fedayeen operational contacts.
Birhan, John explained, would be sent to Baghdad because he would not cooperate. He confirmed what we already knew about Mohammed Ibrahim Omar al-Musslit’s brothers and cousins being in charge of various parts of the country and organizing insurgent efforts. After Rudman’s death, we had assumed that Mohammed was in charge, but we now knew that he had been in charge all along. Rudman had, in fact, worked for him. It seemed likely, with the ring closing around Tikrit, that Mohammed might have taken flight to Samarra. John’s note continued:
Mohammed’s partner/confidant is a guy named Sabah (last name unknown) aka “Abu Ayman.” Allegedly, Sabah is in charge of the Fedayeen in Samarra. Amir and Bassam are both certain that Mohammed Ibrahim is now staying at Sabah’s house in Samarra. They also stated, however, that Mohammed rented a house in Samarra in Sabah’s name, for an unknown purpose and neither Amir nor Bassam know the location of the rental home.
We Got Him! Page 29