The Bremer Detail

by Frank Gallagher,John M. Del Vecchio

  Again back to the range. We shot for about an hour when Steve called a time-out. As we were walking toward the targets to examine them Babs pointed at a dragonfly buzzing around about seven yards in front of us. He laughed and said watch this. He drew his pistol and shot the dragonfly while it was in the air moving away from us and to the left—a truly awesome display of pistol marksmanship. The guy could shoot.

  We talked about what we had done over the last few days, and he said he was satisfied and I was “good to go.” We went to see Brian B and Babs gave me the thumbs-up. I was ecstatic. It was the most intense shooting session I had ever been through. Now only the run lurked in the back of my mind.

  Brian B talked about the deployment dates. I read and signed the contract. We talked about life insurance, what would happen if we got involved in a shooting, and so on. I gave them my passport so they could get me a visa for Kuwait. Kuwait was the mustering site for folks heading to Iraq. They gave me a departure date and we shook hands. I walked out of the office with Babs and he took me to the spot where they issued gear. I got some shirts, trousers. He asked if I had any other questions and I said no. We shook hands and he wished me luck. He said it was over and to have a good trip home. I hesitated for a second and then asked about the physical fitness test. He said not to worry about it as the range had tested all he had needed to see. He said again I was “good to go.” I thanked the sweet little baby Jesus in my own way. I grabbed my new “cool guy” gear and went back to the bunkhouse to pack my shit and escape before anybody could change their minds. I did not relax until I hit Delaware.

  The drive home was, to say the least, interesting. The Northeast power grid had failed and a massive outage blacked out New York and the New England states. Traffic lights were out; toll booths and gas stations were closed. As I cruised through Delaware I heard radio reports of what was coming, so I gassed up and plotted how I could best get to Connecticut. I crossed into New Jersey. The drive became treacherous. About forty miles into the Garden State I began a laborious trek on nontoll roads. They too were jammed. Tempers were flaring. Drivers dove into small gaps in traffic like WW II kamikaze pilots attacking carriers. Finally the radio reported all the tolls on the Garden State Parkway had been opened to let traffic flow. I maneuvered back to the highway and had clear sailing to the Tappan Zee Bridge. The trip took six hours longer than it should have, but I was happy to be back in Connecticut. I thought, If I don’t get killed driving home, Iraq will be a cakewalk.

  I arrived home at about 0400. We had no power. I told Kim by candlelight that I had passed and would be leaving in two weeks. I told the girls the next morning. I hoped in a weird way they were happy for me, but I could sense concern on their faces. They were used to my disappearances, but it was usually to Paris or London or Australia or South America, not to a war zone. And definitely not to Iraq. Friends, too, questioned my sanity. The only thing I could say was that I had signed up to go, I would honor my commitment, and I would be home in a month. I was excited!

  August 2003

  Departure day arrived, and off I went to JFK with all the gear I thought I might need. Actually with way more than I would ever need. Since we were protecting the presidential envoy, I packed a couple of suits, some Polo shirts, ties, dress shoes, and a sport coat. And my cool-guy tactical gear. Little did I know I would need a lot more tactical, and a lot less executive, equipment.

  Travel always has its travails. When I reached the counter of the American immigration line in Kuwait, I was directed to a room and told to take a seat. Behind the glass partition I could see the immigration officers drinking tea and smoking cigarettes. My passport rested on the table in front of them. After twenty minutes I knocked on the glass to see if there was a problem and was curtly told to sit back down. Thirty minutes later I knocked again. Once more I was told to sit. No one had even opened my passport. An hour later the “coffee break” ended and they stamped my passport. Welcome to Middle East time. The Kuwaitis apparently had forgotten how the United States had saved their asses during the first Gulf War. This cultural difference would end up being a pain in my ass more than a few times.

  I retrieved my bags and went to look for the driver who was supposed to be waiting to take me to the hotel where I was to stay the first evening. No driver. Instead I found a shuttle bus. At the hotel front desk I was told there was no room for me. I explained I was transiting to Iraq, and they directed me to the other side where contractors registered. My name was on the manifest for the next morning, so they assigned me a bed. This was not quite the hotel room I hoped for. It had four beds, no locks on the doors, no TV, no phone, and only a single desk and chair. I dropped my gear and went to find a phone to tell the family I had arrived; and to phone Big Bird, the man who would become my partner in Baghdad.

  Bird was a retired Army Delta guy. I got him on the phone and told him I would arrive the next day around midafternoon. He said he and Brett H would be there to pick me up. Brett was a former SEAL. Bird also told me that Bremer was in the United States for the next few days so we’d have time to go over everything before he returned. Cool, I thought. A good chance to reset the body clock and get used to the heat before we started working.

  Next morning at 0400 I got on the bus for the airport. When we arrived our gear was placed on pallets, and we were told we’d have to wait for the plane to arrive to take us into Iraq. The pallets were loaded with everything from military-issue seabags and rucksacks to red women’s suitcases. We were directed to a large military tent and told we would be called when they were ready for us. We waited. It was hot as hell. We waited some more. There was a nervous buzz of mindless chatter between the men and women who were waiting with me. You could see and feel the anticipation within the folks getting ready to fly into the war zone. I sucked down a few bottles of water; tried to stay calm.

  Finally we boarded a U.S. Air Force C-130 filled with Americans—civilians and military. I could read anxiety on many faces. Some of the folk were just kids in their early twenties going to work for nongovernment organizations (NGOs). Some were military vets returning to their units.

  The plane landed in Mosul. With engines still running the crew chief began to herd everyone off the plane and commanded us to keep walking until the pain stopped. I had no idea what he was talking about. Once off the plane I realized he was talking about the heat. It was 125 degrees outside, and combined with the heat from the engines it must have been 150 degrees. I thought I had taken the plane to hell. We had an hour to kill. You can talk about dry heat all you want, this was painfully hot. Like standing-in-front-of-a-giant-hair-dryer hot. It hurt to breathe. The crew began refueling, unloading gear, and loading additional cargo for the folks headed to Baghdad. I kept walking but there was no relief. We were directed to another tent and told we’d be called when the plane was ready. I downed two more bottles of water.

  We off-loaded in Baghdad. Our gear had been placed on a number of pallets that forklifts had picked up and dropped off in the “baggage claim” area. If your stuff was on the bottom, you had to wait for the folks whose stuff was on top to grab theirs before you could get yours. I looked for Bird and Brett. There were two guys who looked as though they might be looking for me. I was correct. I threw my stuff in the back of their Suburban, and Bird handed me a rifle, a pistol, ammo, and a set of body armor. Then they told me what we would do if we were attacked. What had I signed up for?!

  We raced down Baghdad International Airport Road (BIAP Road or “Route Irish” to the military in the area) at 70 mph. Speed limits were nonexistent and speed was your biggest ally as you drove the gauntlet. Burned-out vehicles littered the roadside. Bird and Brett explained some of the tactics the insurgents were using to attack coalition forces: dropping grenades off overpasses onto oncoming traffic; pulling up alongside vehicles and firing at them with AK-47s; planting improvised explosive devices (IEDs) in animal carcasses. The bad guys knew no Iraqis would touch the rotting
flesh, and they could wait for an American convoy to drive past before detonating the bomb. True to form the bad guys were not playing fair.

  Brett said they had one stop to make in town before we went to Saddam’s palace. His palace had been turned into the headquarters for the Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA). We drove through downtown Baghdad and stopped at a storefront. I was told to take a security position, to watch the car, and to be alert for people approaching. They went in and quickly came out with about ten cases of beer and several bottles of assorted adult beverages. I thought to myself I had just signed a document a few days earlier stating I wouldn’t drink while I was in-country. I casually asked Bird about the drinking rules. He laughed like hell and said they had all signed the same document. This was the first time the “big boy” rule was explained to me—We do what we want as long as it does not affect the mission or mission readiness.

  We arrived at a labyrinth of checkpoints and speed bumps buzzing with military personnel—the Green Zone. It was a secure area designed to keep the bad guys away from U.S. and coalition workers and officials as they charted the course for the future of Iraq. We went directly to my new home, a trailer that I would share with Bird. It had a toilet, shower, and sink area that we shared with two guys living in the other half of the trailer. Fortunately we also had a refrigerator, a perk B-Town had apparently “found.” I unpacked while Bird drove Brett to the Al Rasheed Hotel. For his last few days in-country Brett had taken a room there to experience its luxury. For media and visitors the Al Rasheed, still open for business, offered the best accommodations in the Green Zone. Many Americans lived there. All this would soon change.

  It was hot! The air-conditioning in the trailer could barely keep up. Bird returned and took me to the palace for my ID card and to introduce me to the army guys with whom we would be working.

  To say my arrival was met with a look of disapproval would be an understatement. The Criminal Investigative Division (CID) guys who protect the secretary of defense and other high-ranking Defense Department personnel, did not like “dirty contractors.” Bird filled me in as best he could about what the problems were and how to best make it work. He had previously been part of the contractor team that had worked on the Karzai detail in Afghanistan, and he had tried to get these CID guys to incorporate some of the tactics he had used successfully over there. There was a lot of pushback from these guys as they truly believed they knew what they were doing and were certain their ideas were always superior to any idea from a contractor. It was awkward at best. I met the staff who supported the ambassador. Most were young, enthusiastic government employees who had volunteered to be there and become part of history.

  We went back to the trailer where I got a quick tutorial on the foot and driving formations the CID guys were using to try and keep Ambassador Bremer safe. I was told we also had to watch the office where Bremer worked, while the CID guys would watch his bedroom—an empty office redesigned as sleeping quarters. It had a cot, a desk, and a lamp—Spartan living at best.

  I needed to know where the office was, the parking areas, the ambassador’s living space, and anything and everything else that could and would impact the job we were doing. There was a lot to learn, including the priority of the moment—food. The chow hall was an immense crystal, marble, and gold room the size of two side-by-side football fields converted into an old-style high school cafeteria where several hundred folks could eat. We grabbed trays, some plastic utensils, and then waited in line to have the subcontracted third-country national spoon food of our choices onto a plate. Next we jockeyed for a place to sit at tables with the capacity for twenty or more people. As the U.S. presence had increased, there were so many people at the Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA) that overflow seating had to be added to accommodate the masses.

  After chow we retreated to the trailer where we enjoyed a cold beer, then to the Al Rasheed Hotel to link up with Brett. At the Al Rasheed I was introduced to a bar that Saddam’s sons had modeled after a ’70s disco, Studio 54, I think. The lights of a twelve-foot-high Ba’ath Party symbol pulsated in the center of the dance floor. It was surreal. The place was mobbed with other contractors, U.S. military personnel, government employees. Bird took me around to introduce me to several of his friends. The music was blasting, people were dancing, and you would never have known there was a raging conflict going on two hundred yards away. All in all, I was stunned by what I had seen on my first few hours in-country. We went back to the trailer and I crashed like a dead person.

  The next morning the power was out and there was no running water. Bird explained this was a common occurrence, and the best way to shower was to use the outdoor shower at the pool or to jump in the palace pool. Bird took me to chow, then to the gym. He was a machine, a workout warrior. I was exhausted, but tried to keep up. I knew I had to do it or I’d never survive my month. Bird was scheduled to rotate out with me at the end of September.

  After the gym the tour continued. It was extremely confusing as it appeared to me there was neither rhyme nor reason to how things had been laid out. Apparently groups had come into the palace and claimed space based upon the old first come, first claim rule. Again we met with our CID and other military counterparts. I still did not get a warm and fuzzy feeling from them. It seems as if there had been rumors wafting back to the State Department or maybe the White House that the army guys were not really up to the task of keeping Bremer safe. They were very defensive. Hell, I was just trying to fit in and become part of the team. I had no hidden agenda.

  Within three days, their worst fears were confirmed. The U.S. Secret Service came into town with a four-man assessment team led by Jim Cawley. After analysis and observation, he declared Ambassador Bremer to now be the most-threatened man in the world; and that his protection would require a higher skill set than CID currently possessed. CID was severely ass hurt by his assessment.

  About this time the ambassador came back to Iraq. We picked him up at the airport, loaded him onto a Black Hawk helo, and flew him to the Green Zone. He went directly to his office and to work. Ambassador Bremer never took time off. To watch him and his staff work was amazing. Eighteen-hour days were short days. He finally quit for the day, and when he got back to his room, I reintroduced myself to him. He seemed shocked to see me there, but I think he was happy to see a known and friendly face. Unfortunately, our army counterparts were less than thrilled with the fact the ambassador and I had a relationship that went back ten years. Their reaction to his reaction was priceless. Oh well.

  Bird and I were called to a meeting with Jim Cawley from the Secret Service where we were told the CID guys were going to be replaced. At this time we didn’t know by whom. The next day, 28 August 2003, we were told Blackwater would be taking over Bremer’s protection; and based upon my work with Kissinger and my relationship with Bremer, Jim Cawley was going to recommend that I be named the agent-in-charge (AIC) of the detail. I had spent eight years traveling to dozens of countries with Dr. Kissinger and Ambassador Bremer and had experience with both the protocols of the Secret Service and the State Department. The CID guys were severely pissed off, but the reality is—despite all the posturing—somebody from the Department of Defense and/or from the White House made the decision. The Secret Service did not make the decision; Blackwater did not make the decision; and I certainly didn’t make the decision.

  Blackwater headquarters called and asked if I would take the new position. What a roller-coaster ride these first days in-country had become. The thirty-day promise to Kim and the kids was on my mind. So was the mission. Yesterday I was one of two contractors working with Army CID; now I was being asked to run a thirty-six-man team. The shock was unbelievable. What had I signed up for? Nowhere in my mind had I imagined this scenario.

  I told Blackwater, “Yes.” Bird would become my shift leader. The Secret Service briefed Bremer. He agreed to the switch. My nerves were jangled; adrenaline pumped; we were off
to the races!

  Blackwater quickly found another thirty-four guys, gave them a quick train-up, and prepped to send them over to join Bird and me. The train-up consisted of weapons training and qualifications (Glock, M-4), a physical, a physical fitness test, a psychological evaluation, and some basics on the formations they thought we would be using. They had less than a week to staff the detail. It wasn’t the best of situations, but Blackwater had agreed to undertake the mission and time was of the essence. Fortunately, Blackwater had the advantage of an elite reputation in the security community and could recruit good people. While this was going on security enhancements recommended by the Secret Service needed implementation, including reinforcing the ambassador’s office to withstand explosions, and further restricting access to his office. We also had to find better, more secure living quarters for the boss—a house where he could live and that we could protect.

  In addition to the thirty-four guys that were selected, Blackwater also told me that as part of the contract there would be three MD-530 helicopters, six pilots, and four mechanics joining us as soon as they could recruit the right guys and get the “Little Birds” outfitted and ready for Baghdad. Estimated time of arrival was “about” thirty days. Finding housing and a place for the Little Birds would be a problem in and of itself.

  Bird and I were still working with the CID guys. It was not pretty. Hell hath no fury like a soldier being replaced by contractors. Somehow, to them, Bird and I were accountable for the changeover. They went out of their way to make our lives as difficult as possible. We pulled office watch all day long and made every Red Zone run with the boss. The CID totally slacked off. They used the office time to sleep, and at night they posted only one man outside the boss’s room. It quickly caught up with them. Early one morning while the Secret Service team was there doing some assessment, the agents went to the ambassador’s room and found no CID there. Another morning the ambassador left his room to find himself unprotected. Saying nothing he simply laced up his running shoes and went for his morning run without any security. From a protection perspective this was not good, not even if the ambassador enjoyed the solitude of being able to run alone for the first time in months.