After the Secret Service named Ambassador Bremer the most-threatened man in the world I began to get daily intelligence briefs from the various intelligence agencies—CIA, DIA, OSS, and State Department—working in the country. The agencies all had the same intelligence information, but each, depending upon the analyst and his source, interpreted it slightly differently and relayed it to me with a personal twist. Still, they all had the same basic message—“Uh, not sure how to tell you this, but today, you are all going to die.”
It was enlightening and frightening at the same time. I was never sure how much info to share with guys on the team. I was worried that some guys I did not know well might overreact to something and create an incident. My intuition eventually proved prophetic as other Blackwater teams did things that came under intense scrutiny in the years after we left. Why some of these incidents occurred, I will never know. But I do know, on my team, especially in the beginning, there were some guys looking for an excuse to try to prove their manhood. Many times we were in a position that could have resulted in us shooting people, and being completely justified in doing so. Calm heads were mandatory.
All this hit the guys within twenty-four hours of the team getting “boots on the ground.” Throw in trying to figure out which radios we would use, who would work where, getting ID cards, fighting with the CID about which vehicles we would use, and an average person would be inclined to get a tad short-tempered. The stress was immense. It felt like I was being kicked every time I turned around. There was always an excuse as to why I could not get what I needed. Simple requests became like acts of Congress in their complexity. And all we were trying to do was keep the ambassador alive.
Four days after the Secret Service left—and after twenty-four hours of intense construction modifications—the villa they had selected for the ambassador was ready for his occupancy. I chose a team of guys to safeguard this house 24/7. It had been the home of the mother-in-law of Uday Hussein, one of Saddam’s sons. It was garish but had extremely thick walls we hoped could withstand an explosion. In the rear of the place were two other buildings we could use to store some of our gear. Ominously, one of them had hooks in the ceilings from which, we were told, the Hussein brothers used to hang their enemies. We even found several handguns that had been left in various locations around the property—in the outbuildings, on the roof, in the garden. It was pretty bizarre.
Guarding Bremer’s sleeping quarters was not part of the initial Blackwater contract, but we had to make it work. Six of my new thirty-four men were designated to go and secure the villa. It was not quite the glamorous “world-famous bodyguard” job for which they’d signed up. Everybody wanted to be on the team with the boss. Feelings were hurt, and in the beginning some guys thought being assigned to the villa meant they were on the B-team and somehow unworthy. No job on the detail was any less important than any other job. Everybody had to pull their weight and do the assigned task to the best of their ability. I put one of my men, Sax, at the villa initially to oversee the security enhancements and to make sure that the guys were doing the job as we had outlined. Sax was a former SEAL, and he took over the villa and ran it well. All this was accomplished in short order, and I moved him over to the advance team.
So, doing the math, out of thirty-four men I had two Ops/support guys, six guys at the villa, and two dog handlers, leaving just twenty-six people (this included Bird and me) for the advance team and the detail. The advance team always went out with the two dog guys and twelve men. That left eleven for the detail; with room for one man being sick, hurt, or otherwise incapacitated.
The food was well below American standards, the heat was unbearable, jet lag exacerbated problems, and still the team hit the ground running roughly one day after landing. Coordinating everything each day became a logistical nightmare. Guys were sick, tired, cranky, and some just plain should not have been there. In the haste to put the team together, the selection process was not as stringent as it would eventually become. We found out very quickly who the “real men” were and who the pretenders were. Guys complained about the hours and said they were being overworked and forced to miss meals. Some complained I was working them too hard and they were not getting enough sleep. Some complained about the living conditions, some about the food. My response was pretty much always the same, “If the ambassador can do it, so can we. If you want to go home, just ask.”
The typical day began at 0530 with the detail meeting in front of the palace before heading over to the ambassador’s villa. We would get to the villa, talk to the guys there, and see how the night had gone; then we’d form up security around the building to ensure that if an attack happened we could get the ambassador back into the house or into the armored vehicle as quickly as possible. He left the villa around 0630 each morning to begin his day. This happened every single day we were there. The route to the palace was a short motorcade trip, but nevertheless strict mental discipline needed to be maintained. We could never let our guard down. We would arrive at the office, form the security formation around the motorcade, and escort the ambassador into the palace. Once inside his office we posted one man to stay at the door and another outside the office to man the metal detectors and work with our MP escort team to keep unauthorized people from entering. The MPs were invaluable in this position as they had the power to arrest anyone who defied their orders to stop. Many people (military and nonmilitary) were in the habit of carrying weapons with them everywhere they went. We did NOT and would not allow any weapons, except for the ones that the Blackwater guys were carrying, inside the ambassador’s office. It became an issue more than a few times. Without the MPs’ presence, I’m sure it would have gotten very ugly.
There was a one-hour rotation of the posts around the office, thirty minutes on his door and thirty minutes at the metal detectors. We tried to make sure no one ever had more than one office shift each day so everyone was as fresh as possible. When the ambassador went to the chow hall, we would send a few guys down ahead of time to get him a table and try to give him some space. Ambassador Bremer, however, would shake hands with everyone and pose for pictures with whoever asked (including the non-Americans). With daily intel reports indicating the kitchen staff, the barbers, the groundskeepers, and many others were potential assassins, my guys were in a constant state of high alert. And this was INSIDE the Green Zone.
The ambassador also kept an extremely heavy schedule of meetings outside the Green Zone. Each mission required the advance team to head out an hour or so before the detail team to run the routes and establish security around the venue. Then the detail team would take the ambassador to the event. Then we would head back to the palace and resume security at the office while we waited for the next mission. This happened anywhere from once to five or six times a day, each and every day for the entire time we provided his protection.
Around 1900 each day, I would ask Bremer what time he wanted to go back to the villa. The answer varied from 2100 to 2300 And this was only if a member of the governance team had not barged in on him at the last second to talk about the latest crisis du jour. The governance team was composed of the Americans and Iraqis who were trying to design and implement a new Iraqi government. They had a very difficult job. Every day there was a new problem; every evening the ambassador was updated on wrinkles in yesterday’s plan. Oftentimes he would ask for a 2100 departure only to be trapped in his office until midnight. The detail team staged thirty minutes before his requested departure time. Sometimes it was three hours or more before he actually loaded up in the car and we took him home. The boss was a machine. Upon arrival at the villa he would usually tell me to be there at 0630 again the next day. The detail would then head back to their trailers after securing their gear and weapons. Five and a half hours later we were back to work.
About a week after landing, the team was able to move into their trailers from the makeshift barracks created from the small ballroom Saddam had in the
palace. Of course this was only accomplished because Colonel Dennis Sabol (USMC—assigned to Ambassador Bremer’s staff) put priority on the Blackwater guys getting housing before a few “less essential” people who were working there. Colonel Sabol was a good man who more than once helped me navigate through some potentially murky situations. You have to love the Marine Corps brotherhood.
The guys moved into a trailer park, and essentially had an entire block to themselves. This quickly became known as Blackwater Boulevard. Our mission had morphed from what we had anticipated. We had been promised armored vehicles and had none; we had not been told about the villa detail; we did not know Ambassador Bremer never rested and never took more than four hours off. The big boy rules I had inherited from Bird became the norm. I was not going to tell the guys they could not enjoy a cold beer at the end of an eighteen-hour day. My only rule was if you showed up drunk or could not function at 100 percent the next day, you would be sent home.
Being true type A personalities, the end of the day get-togethers began to draw quite a crowd. When a group of alpha males congregate there is no limit on where the conversation may head. And we were quite a diverse collection of former Rangers, SEALs, Recon Marines, Special Forces, French Foreign Legion, SWAT cops, regular navy, regular army, and cops. The ball busting could reach the hysterical stage in seconds. Nothing was off-limits—interservice rivalries, country boy vs. city boy, North vs. South, football vs. baseball, Army vs. Navy vs. Marines vs. Air Force. And being, by and large, a group of intelligent, self-confident, quick-witted, experienced, and extremely sarcastic guys, there was neither room nor time for guys who did not have truly thick skin. It was a comedy show that people outside our group often found irresistible. Of course, the outsiders also became targets of opportunity, and many gave as well as they took.
No one at the palace really knew what to make of us. They knew why we were there, but Blackwater at this time meant little or nothing to most people. We were the quiet professionals struggling to find our place in the grand scheme of palace politics and palace life. We were trying to keep the ambassador alive while he kept a schedule we were convinced was designed to kill us. We were there when most people arrived for work in the morning, and we were still there long after they left for the evening. If they showed up for the midnight meal we were still there. Despite gruff, intimidating appearances most of the guys were charming and polite to everyone who approached, and they were always ready with a smile and a self-deprecating sense of humor. It did not take long to become well liked and a true part of the Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA) community. The guys were soon embraced not as knuckle-dragging Neanderthal morons but as serious professionals doing a serious job and having a good time while they were doing it.
We began to get invited to the pool parties that were held every Thursday evening. We rarely got there when they started, but the guys would eventually show up and friendships were formed with many from the different groups—U.S. and foreign military types, U.S. and foreign politicians, career government workers, and some remarkable civilians who had volunteered to be part of this massive undertaking—the rebuilding of Iraq.
Coordinating with other groups that were to attend a function with Ambassador Bremer was one of the toughest parts of my job. It involved talking to other security teams, the press, military leaders, and anyone else who was attending. As the team protecting the highest-ranking man in the country, we always had final say on all security arrangements that would affect our ability to make the event as safe as possible for the ambassador. There was always a good bit of give-and-take on all sides. As a result people began to trust us. They realized we were only looking out for the ambassador and not trying (intentionally) to make anyone’s job more difficult. We recognized as well that they had a job to do. By working together we could all do our jobs better.
And many of the people we had to liaise with were attractive females.
The ratio of men to women was roughly forty to one. Each woman there probably had in the vicinity of a hundred or so guys trying to woo her heart. My guys were no exception. But they were experienced hunters who knew how to charm. With their past lives as special operations ass kickers and the aura they currently had as Blackwater PSD team members, they did not lack the confidence to try to claim a sizable share of the attention of the limited supply of the fair gender.
Realizing quickly that this could pose some problems, we had to establish ground rules to keep guys from fighting over the same lady. The rules were pretty easy to understand and eventually became ingrained in how we dealt with relationships. All women were considered fair game until a member of the team slept with her. After that she was off-limits to all other Blackwater guys. A gentleman’s agreement if you will. And it worked. There were very few fights or arguments over women. We all knew and obeyed the rules. The woman chose the guy she wanted; we respected her decision, and the other wolves left her alone.
About a week or so after we took over the PSD duties, the ambassador was called back to Washington. This gave us a chance to finally test fire and zero our weapons, work on our formations and evac drills, and to unwind and get to know one another. Bird and I decided to throw a party. We really knew nothing about the guys on the team, and I did not want anything stupid to happen this early in the game, so we had it at the Al Rasheed pool not at the palace. We grabbed six guys, grabbed our weapons, put on our body armor, and headed to downtown Baghdad to buy some adult beverages. In downtown Baghdad there were a few stores that sold liquor, and somehow Bird knew where they were and what types of beverages were available at each. It was always the same routine. Drive up, jump out, establish a security perimeter around the vehicles, dash in, quickly order what we wanted, and dash back to the vehicles. Total time on station was usually less than five minutes. Then we’d race back to the Green Zone. Of course, we always made sure that if anyone outside our team wanted something we would also get it for them. Eventually we became the go-to guys for many Green Zone workers who had no access to vehicles or a way to get outside. We were a full-service, happy, and friendly bunch.
We returned and talked the guys at the chow hall into giving us some ice, which was always in extremely short supply. Then we headed over to the Al Rasheed. As luck would have it quite a few people accepted our invitation. All told there were probably twenty-five of our guys, an additional twenty from other groups, and a handful of women. As the party reached its zenith everyone eventually wound up in the pool. The shirts came off, then the shorts. The ladies present got a lot of attention.
Type A personalities in a war zone are driven by many things. One is survival. I knew these guys would fight to the death if they needed to. They were tough, in top shape, and had great skill sets honed over the course of impressive careers. The other overwhelming drive they had was driven by testosterone. They were men, and men like women. Some guys were married, some divorced, most had kids, but all wanted female companionship. They were very intelligent and had the “A” game that emboldened them to say and do most anything in the pursuit of a woman. Interestingly, many times they were not the hunters but the prey. The war zone equally drew type A ladies.
Nudity in our world is not a big deal. Special operations guys have few or no hang-ups about their bodies. Guys get naked at the drop of a hat. Sometimes in somewhat awkward situations—because they think it might be funny, or they just feel like it, or someone dares them—next thing you know there’s a naked dude sitting right next to you. We just laugh because it’s a pretty normal thing for us. For others, it can be a real turnoff. Fortunately, the women who joined us for our get-togethers had no issues with it. The next thing I knew they were down to bras and thongs.
The party shaped up nicely, but I was very apprehensive about it getting out of hand. As the sun went down I suggested we retreat to Blackwater Boulevard. We loaded up the remaining beer and liquor and as many of the guys we could find, and back to the palace g
rounds we went.
Because Bird and I had moved in before there was even a thought of Blackwater taking over the PSD duties, our trailer was directly behind the palace and about five hundred yards from the Boulevard. I cruised over to my trailer, put on some dry clothes, and headed back to the guys. When I arrived, the party had grown from just us to more than seventy-five people. The music was blasting and the laughter was even louder. Everyone was getting along fine. Bonding with the team and relaxing had been a good idea. Everyone got to know each other a little better, and I was hopeful that this was harbinger of good things to come.
In most groups there is a 10 percent factor that does not belong or cannot get along with the other 90 percent. This will always remain a mystery to me. The day after the party the bullshit started. We had a guy assigned to the team who had apparently not done well during the selection process but was sent over anyway because he could speak Arabic. I was told he was to be used strictly as an interpreter, and I assigned him to Scotty H, who was in charge of the advance team. Scotty was a retired, no-nonsense SEAL I truly respected. He is one of the best men I have worked with anywhere in the world. He ran a tight ship and did an excellent job despite the short run-up to going operational.
The Bremer Detail Page 5