We Got Him!

by Steve Russell

  “Who are you?!” demanded the soldiers through the translator.

  “I am Saddam Hussein, the duly elected president of Iraq,” the startled man replied. “I am willing to negotiate.”

  “Well, President Bush sends his regards,” answered one of the men. Then, turning to Samir he said, “Tell him to put his hands up and come out.”

  Saddam either could not or did not clearly understand Samir’s order to put his hands up. He raised one. When ordered again, he raised the other but not both. Finally, he raised both and stood directly below the opening with enough of his person exposed to grab him.

  Hands extended from every direction into the opening and snatched Saddam literally by the scruff of his neck, hair, beard and clothes. John’s men promptly went to work. A Glock 18C fully automatic pistol was found inside the hole. The Hussein Hilton was not much larger than the tyrant himself. Dimensionally, it was similar to a six-foot folding table one might crawl under with barely enough room to sit in a slumped position. There was a rug covering the dirt floor and a small switch that controlled an electric fan that drew in air from outside. The only other item in the hole was a pair of brown flip-flops.

  There was much cursing and bantering between the translator and Saddam. Tempers flared. Finding nothing on Saddam, John’s men began to inspect him for known physical marks. Angry, he attempted to shove the soldiers away. That was a stupid thing to do. He was immediately “encouraged” to cooperate. With his mouth bleeding and a cut above his eye, he became much more cooperative. The men examined him for the sunburst tattoo on the back of his right hand. It was there. They checked the back of the left hand between the thumb and forefinger for the “Three Dot” tattoo, which represented “God, Country, Leader” and the national motto. That, too, was there.

  “Sir, we got him. Jackpot! We got him!” radioed John to Colonel Hickey as the men zip-tied his hands behind him.

  “That’s great,” replied Colonel Hickey in a relieved voice.

  Jim Hickey turned to “Bill.” Broad grins formed on their faces and like athletes on a sports field after a game-changing play, they spontaneously hugged and slapped each other on the backs. The time was 8:26 p.m.

  While word spread to the immediate commanders in the wheat field, Samir and the ex-president continued their hateful exchange in Arabic. John’s men pulled Samir back, trying to calm him. As they prepared to escort Saddam to his awaiting flight, Samir convinced one of the men to photograph him with Saddam. It was the only known picture taken of Saddam at the hole.

  John had called for extraction. Up above, “Brian” peeled off in his Little Bird and landed in the wheat field near the farm. Years of rewarding special ops flying had been capped with this extraordinary moment. The bird fluttered in, its rapid whirring sound slackening as it touched the ground. Many soldiers in the cordon, unaware of recent developments inside the farm area, merely witnessed a man being ushered out with a sandbag over his head and zip-tied hands. His appearance was identical to that of thousands of other insurgents captured and detained.

  Dez Bailey was back at his command vehicle now. That “one more check” had certainly paid off. As he was taking it all in, his driver became curious.

  “Sir, what did he just say on the radio?” he probed.

  “Troop, you just keep watching your sector and keep your head in the game,” Bailey cut him off, knowing that they had to keep it all under wraps. In the short distance, Dez saw the bag-covered Saddam being steered to “Brian’s” Little Bird. The blades picked up the dust around the bird and the high-pitched whir of the sleek little helicopter signaled liftoff. Dez watched through his night vision goggles as it proceeded toward Tikrit.

  Colonel Hickey made his way across the stretch of wheat field to the farm. He spotted John. The two engaged in another congratulatory hug.

  “Congratulations, John,” offered Colonel Hickey.

  “Right back at you, sir,” acknowledged John, reflecting the embodiment of teamwork that had brought all of us to this point.

  “Sir, I’ve got about a million bucks for you,” he informed through a big smile. “We found it in a green chest.”

  Colonel Hickey, Chief Gray, Command Sergeant Major Wilson, and John made their way to the farm. There it was, the green chest containing seven hundred and fifty thousand U.S. dollars. Colonel Hickey had seen more than ten times that amount in the first big breakthrough raid that narrowly missed Saddam at the Hadooshi Farm, but this one was sweet indeed. Less money—far greater prize.

  Colonel Hickey conferred briefly with John and “Bill” and then ordered Dez Bailey to secure the site and seal it off. He also ordered Dez to keep the information close hold.

  There was a brief pause to record the moment. Gathering up the money, Colonel Hickey, Command Sergeant Major Wilson, Chief Gray, and Colonel Hickey’s translator, Specialist Joe Gamdi, who held the money chest on his shoulder, posed for a picture.

  Hickey took a last look around before walking to his vehicle. Lifting the receiver on his commander’s tactical satellite phone, he called General Odierno.

  “Sir, this is Jim Hickey,” he stated.

  “Yes, Jim,” answered General Odierno with some curiosity.

  “We’ve captured Number One, and I have about a million dollars in the back of my Humvee to give you.”

  General Odierno was stunned and elated. After confirming the Colonel’s news, he whispered to his main staff sitting with him. A roar went up, and he realized that they must lock down the information. It had to be controlled until national leaders had been notified.

  “I’ll be at your headquarters in twenty to thirty minutes to go over it with you,” informed Hickey.

  CESAR ROMERO

  At divisional headquarters, General Odierno ordered his signal officer to lock down all Internet and cell phones. Everything had to be shut off. He then began to notify his own chain of command in Baghdad.

  Major Troy Smith had been monitoring the entire operation from Colonel Hickey’s headquarters. Stan Murphy was on pins and needles. Smith received a phone call from Hickey. After several “Roger, sirs” and “Yes, sirs,” he hung up the satellite phone. Troy Smith would launch the first in a string of announcements echoing John’s initial radio call to Colonel Hickey. It would reach all the way to Ambassador Paul Bremer by morning.

  “Attention in the TOC,” Smith alerted the staff in the ops center. “Ladies and gentlemen, we got him!”

  Cheers went up inside the brigade headquarters, after which Troy followed with the same sets of shutdown instructions. He then called Colonel Don Campbell to give him the same news. The words “We got him” just seemed to be the most appropriate way to phrase it.

  On the other side of the river, I received a call on the commander’s tactical satellite phone as well. The radio would not be appropriate for the information I was about to receive. I lifted the receiver to hear Colonel Hickey’s voice. He broke the news to me a bit more creatively.

  “Cesar Romero!” announced Colonel Hickey with a subdued chuckle. In the summer, images had been released by the Department of Defense showing what Saddam might look like in disguise—with a beard, without a beard, bald, with hair, etc. One of the altered images looked amazingly like the actor Cesar Romero, best known as the “Joker” in the 1960s Batman television series. From that point forward, we used it as a comical code name for Saddam.

  “Oh my God,” I said under my breath, stunned. I began to thank God for answering countless prayers. I didn’t know what to say. I listened speechlessly as Colonel Hickey paused.

  “Not a word,” Hickey ordered. “The announcement must be official. The president has to be notified, and this will take some time.”

  “Roger, sir,” I answered. “I understand the importance of it.”

  “Tell none of your soldiers what has just happened,” he reinforced. “I want you to quietly ensure you cut off Internet and cell communications.”

  “Wilco, sir,” I acknowledged, still stunned
.

  After a few more details, Colonel Hickey was on to the next call to his field commanders. Putting on my best straight face, I hung up the receiver. I could show no emotion even though I was bursting at the seams. We did it. It really happened. I had to go find a place to be alone.

  Once there, I could not help but reflect on all the months of fighting, raiding, and hard work; the blood, sweat, and tears that our soldiers had shed; the family networks; the “three tiers” strategy and the network of bodyguards; the scores of joint raids and the cemented relationship we had with Jack and John’s unconventional teams. The results of that were: the Ace of Diamonds, the Queen of Hearts, the Two of Diamonds, over sixty percent of the enablers from the five family networks, and now this—Saddam himself, captured. I thanked God for giving us the victory that night. To have participated in the hunt and capture of Saddam Hussein would become one of the proudest achievements of my life.

  Saddam had been flown by “Brian’s” Little Bird to the Water Palace compound. There, John and the combined special operations force from Baghdad eventually congregated in Saddam’s old digs to gape at the tyrant who had defied the world. His shabby appearance was all the more disheveled against the stark contrast of the opulent palace from which he once ruled. His hair was long and matted, his beard was unkempt, and his eyes were angry. He looked remarkably similar to John Brown of Civil War days. The SOF men kept close watch on him until the coordination could be made to transfer him to Baghdad under a veil of secrecy. A special ops helicopter would take him on board with an escort of attack helicopters and Air Force jets. It would be impossible for him to slip through their fingers.

  That night, “Mark,” the special ops flight surgeon who covered the raid from above, would spend the first night with Saddam. The dictator was very chatty. “Mark” was able to quiz him on a number of subjects. Retiring to his hooch, the surgeon celebrated the raid by drinking two Heinekens and reflected on the evening’s experience. That night he wrote in his journal a detailed entry about his conversation with the man who shook his fist in defiance of the world.

  Now, back in my own headquarters, it was difficult to refrain from telling my men that they had participated in the historic capture of Saddam Hussein. Just before midnight, even as “Mark” was conversing with Saddam in Baghdad, I assembled Mike Rauhut, Bryan Luke, Pete Martinez, and Cesar Castro, my two majors and two sergeants major.

  “Meet me at the battalion colors,” I said to Bryan and Pete.

  “What’s up, sir?” they queried.

  “Meet me at the battalion colors,” I reiterated. “I’m going to find Mike.”

  Mike had already bedded down after having been up for hours. He needed the rest but not as much as he needed to hear this news. I woke him.

  “Mike,” I called out. “Get up and meet us at the battalion colors.”

  Once we were gathered, I whispered the news. “Tonight’s raid was successful. We captured Saddam Hussein. Years from now, you will want a picture of us together on this day.” We snapped the photo and sat tight on the information until the next morning.

  When Colonel Hickey returned to his headquarters, he gathered his command group elements together. He delivered the news with a word of warning.

  “I don’t want any of you to talk about this,” he cautioned. He attempted to convey that, while enormously proud of their success, the proper protocol of official notification to our highest-ranking leaders would have to be observed.

  Seeing the soldiers return, a reporter from CNN climbed onto an upper balcony near the place Colonel Hickey was speaking to his men. He flipped his camera on and began recording Hickey’s conversation. He pieced together the essence of the day’s events. Perhaps taking the Colonel’s own words to heart himself, he withheld release of the tape that would have surely insured instant fame or, possibly, notoriety. Later, his recording would document this historic moment for posterity.

  Some of Colonel Hickey’s immediate troops had yet to return to headquarters. Dez Bailey was still at the site of the hole. His men had been on the move for days, having driven from the desert west of Bayjii just to get to this raid. Even so, with all the recent events, you could have plugged them in an outlet and illuminated all of Ad Dawr. Bailey’s men guarded the area while the special ops troops departed and another group raked through it for any useful evidence. They arrived at approximately 3:00 a.m. on December 14 and tore the place apart.

  The three rooms of the stark farmhouse had an odd story of their own to tell. In the kitchen, “Happy Brand” tuna, an open box of Belgian chocolates, cartons of eggs, American-made chips and snacks revealed an interesting side of the dictator. In his “presidential suite,” Saddam’s ratty bedroom wall was decorated with carpets bearing the image of a large buck on one and a sailing ship on the other. Most interesting of all was the Noah’s Ark calendar tacked on the wall. Stacks of novels lay littered about with a can of “Raid” nearby to ward away pests. The guard and the cook had probably occupied the remaining, more sparse room. At the bank of the river, a small fishing boat lay ready to ferry him across to safety.

  By first light, the guys poring over every square inch of the farm had departed. In a matter of hours, the world would learn what a small number of us had known for some time. The world’s reaction was much as ours had been. Standing before a throng of reporters who had been alerted of the special news conference, Ambassador Paul Bremer repeated Troy Smith’s exact words to the world from the Coalition headquarters in Baghdad: “Ladies and gentlemen, we got him!”

  7. TUMULT

  FALLOUT

  On December 14, the world was abuzz with rumors. The rumblings instantly gave way to official confirmation with the electrifying announcement from Baghdad. At last, we had the liberty to speak openly of recent events and their worldwide ramifications. That evening as we patrolled, the city was quiet as a mosque mouse. There was no more activity at 9:30 p.m. than one might expect at 3:00 a.m. Across the city, in each flophouse, apartment, and home, the outlines of the residents were faintly illumined by the glow of the television. The threat of Saddam’s power had come to an end.

  We braced ourselves for the resistance sure to follow, especially in Tikrit. I remembered vividly the spike in violence after Saddam’s spawns were eliminated in Mosul in July. Once the shock of his capture wore off, the local Tikritis would, no doubt, channel that energy into revenge. The wait was a short one. Activity was low on December 14, though a C Company patrol found itself under fire just short of the “Chevron” in the north part of the city. Although none of our men were injured, the alleyways and distance facilitated a clean escape for the attackers.

  As we braced ourselves for more gunfights, a new type of resistance emerged on December 15. We had dealt with a few attempts at demonstrations in late September and early October but disbanded them quickly as they tried to assemble. Our strategy now would be no different. I had waded through the preliminaries of the tribal council of sheiks meeting at the government building that morning at about ten o’clock when Sergeant First Class Gil Nail, my operations sergeant, interrupted our meeting.

  “Sir, we received a report of several hundred students forming at the tip of the ‘Chevron’ and a separate group downtown on the main street,” he whispered.

  “OK, thanks,” I replied, trying to process the information. I closed the meeting with apologies to the sheiks, merely saying that something needed my immediate attention. We mounted up our Humvees and sped in the direction of the demonstrations.

  Captain Brad Boyd had already moved to the “Chevron” to contain about 500 male students. They were marching south along Highway 1 and appeared to be traveling toward the second group that was moving north. Captain Mark Stouffer heard the chatter on the net and readied some of A Company to support us. I would be grateful for his anticipation of the forces I would soon need.

  There were about nine soldiers, including myself, in our command convoy speeding north along Highway 1 where it morphed
into the main street. In the distance we could see a group of about 250 people, most of whom were women. Brad reported that he had forces closing on the northern group and approximated the size of the crowd. Looking ahead, I told Sergeant First Class Nail to ready the bullhorn. I had learned in Kosovo that a bullhorn could double as siren and loudspeaker.

  Hundreds of women, led by men, many carrying large signs of Saddam’s likeness, were blocking the highway as the procession made its way north, presumably to merge with the student group. With cars blocking the intersection, it was clear that we would have a tough time closing in on them. Cody Hoefer very shrewdly bounced the Hummer up sidewalks, making it possible to bypass the cars blocking the intersection.

  “Close up on them,” I ordered.

  We pulled up behind them, hardly slowing down at all, and activated the blaring siren. The ensuing development was reminiscent of that Blues Brothers scene in which they drive the big car into the Nazi demonstration on the bridge. These, however, weren’t Nazis. They were Saddam Baathist loyalists. Startled women in their flowing black robes scattered in every direction. Cowardly men, once shouting bravely in the lead, suddenly melted imperceptibly into the population at large. Our soldiers grabbed the posters of Saddam while Joe Filmore shouted through the siren-turned-loudspeaker for all to clear out or be arrested. Gaining the element of surprise with my small force bought a modicum of time. I needed Mark Stouffer to assume traffic control and keep the main highway open. He was already moving our direction with a platoon of soldiers.

  The women, initially alarmed, regained their courage. We had scattered them to the sidewalks, mostly on the market side of what we called Cross Street. My soldiers formed a picket while Joe Filmore and I advanced toward the most agitated group to advise them to keep off the street. As I began to speak, a woman near me stepped forward and spewed no small amount of spit into my face. Most of it hit my eye protection then gradually slid down the lens to my cheek. It was not a pleasant experience. Wiping it off with my gloved left hand, I could see it was only the nine of us restraining them from the street. After the spit greeting, I took a step backward and scanned the area to ensure that we were not being set up for an insurgent ambush or targeted by an angry Saddam loyalist. I could hear Mark Stouffer’s Bradleys in the distance coming to reinforce us.