The Bremer Detail

by Frank Gallagher,John M. Del Vecchio

  The morning that Q and his team departed, we ate breakfast in the chow hall around 0730. A guy came up to me and asked if he could speak to Q. As Q was sitting right there, actually right next to me, I found it comical. I told him that he had left the week before and asked what he wanted to talk to him about. Q glared at him and said nothing. The guy was wondering if Q could teach a driving class to his drivers. He claimed that Q had taught him a few years earlier while Q was working for BSR. Q is about six feet, five inches tall, weighs around 260 pounds, and is impossible to forget if you have ever really met him. We just shook our heads and smiled. The guy was working for a different company and knew his drivers were nothing compared to mine and were a liability to his protectees. I told him that I would mention it to Q, but that we were way too busy to be teaching others who did not work for Blackwater. Q laughed like hell. We never did do the training.

  For about a week I could see by the look on the boss’s face that he was not happy with Q’s replacement. Larry, quickly dubbed Larrycade by the lead and follow drivers, was a decent driver, but he was much more cautious and deliberate in how he operated the vehicle. And slower. He simply did not have the skill level or the confidence that Q had. The limo sets the pace for the motorcade. I was constantly telling the other drivers to slow down so we could catch up. Scott S, another former BSR guy and former cop, and Dorian A, a former Marine, were going crazy trying to get Larry to maintain a greater pace. Speed meant safety. I began counting the days until Q returned. Only twenty-nine were left. I hoped. And I prayed.

  As I mentioned earlier, 85 percent of all attacks happen in or around the vehicles. Handling those vehicles in an attack is a crucial skill set that few people understand. With Q gone, it became a constant source of concern to me. All three times we were attacked, it happened during motorcade operations. Enough said.

  During a motorcade movement the tactical commander (TC) would call out potential threats to the limo as we moved down the road. The lead and follow cars responded by positioning themselves as a barrier between the limo and the threat.

  TC: “Merging traffic right.”

  The lead would slow down while the follow car sped up, and the limo moved to the left alongside the lead and follow with the lead and follow between the potential threat and the limo. It was a form of ballet at 60 mph.

  TC: “Parked car left.”

  Car bombs were a constant worry. We had to shield the limo from every parked car that we encountered.

  TC: “Men with AKs on the right.”

  As I mentioned earlier, nearly every family in Iraq had an AK-47 in their houses. Crime was rampant, kidnappings for ransom were becoming commonplace, and the locals had to protect themselves and their families. We couldn’t shoot at every person who was armed. We provided a blocking force between the potential threat and the ambassador. Even when they pointed guns at us, our rule was to cover the limo and get out of the kill zone.

  On every mission, threats arose, yet we never engaged. We simply followed our basic training protocol—to keep the ambassador safe and get out of the kill zone as quickly as possible.

  In mid-January there was an influx of people from the State Department. They had been sent over to begin turning the palace into the new U.S. embassy. They were a very serious bunch, and they knew how tough the job was going to be. As we were on a DOD contract I was technically not part of their support structure, but I also knew Blackwater was hoping to continue to do the security for the new ambassador who would be replacing Ambassador Bremer when and if he left. I gave them access to almost everything they asked for. I allowed them to use the helos to do a series of flyovers so they could get a sense of the Green Zone and its vulnerabilities. They needed to make additional security improvements to the villa with an eye toward housing a new ambassador. They were good people, and I was happy to help.

  The ambassador had scheduled his trip to Davos, Switzerland, around this time. Davos was host to the World Economic Forum where the coalition partners were going to press the international community to donate money to help rebuild Iraq. It was a very important event. I told B-Town to pick some guys for the advance team and begin the preparations. Before Davos I would be flying back to the United States for a few days with the ambassador who was meeting with the president, then going on to New York to address the UN. B-Town would take the radios and other gear while I would carry the weapons with me and take them to Davos.

  Jim Cawley from the Secret Service arranged for one of his guys to meet me at Andrews Air Force Base, and I gave him the weapons to hold until we departed in a couple of days. My guys were off to Switzerland. I gave them $10,000 in cash to cover their expenses and told them to be sure to get receipts. I talked to the advance team a few times while we were still in the States. They said everything was all set. A few days in Switzerland would be a welcome respite from Baghdad.

  Unfortunately, real-world events intervened and the trip to Davos was canceled. We headed directly back to the sandbox. Once I got the word from Brian Mac that the boss was not going to Davos I contacted B-Town and advised him to try and get back to Baghdad as quickly as possible. It took them five days. When I asked for the receipts to square up the $64 in change they gave me, they quickly scribbled out some homemade, handwritten ones. Apparently it is quite expensive in Switzerland! We still laugh about it. B-Town, Jadicus, Mongo, and Swiss Mike must have had a good time. They had scouted out more than a few restaurants, ski areas, hotels, bars, and entertainment areas that the ambassador would be able to enjoy if he had been able to find the time. I often wonder if any of them would have been on the ambassador’s short list of places to go.

  Ken was back now, and somehow he fixed it. Getting the hotel and airlines to fax the receipts to him was not easy, but he was a pit bull when it came to the Ops/support stuff. He made sure we were looked after while we were taking care of the ambassador. We never had to think about the support efforts going on behind the scenes.

  Intel reports were still gloomy, but we soldiered on. The pace continued at its incredible rate. One day the boss was at the Al Rasheed and scheduled to go from there to a meeting at the home of a leading Iraqi diplomat. The advance team headed to the man’s house. While they were moving into an intersection, a group of individuals came out and began to fire at their convoy with AK-47s. Following proper procedures they drove out of the kill zone and no one was hurt. I made the decision to abort and told them the meeting was canceled and to return to the Green Zone. Then I told the ambassador there had been an attack on the advance team, and he would not be going. Once again he was relieved that none of us had been hurt.

  When we returned to the office we found out that this leading Iraqi diplomat had not been in his house but had expected the meeting to take place in his office. Even paranoid people have enemies, and I wondered where the miscommunication had taken place. Our office would not have screwed that up; it had to have come from the Iraqi side. Throw in the attack and the whole thing stunk. We had been misled and led directly into an ambush. Not a good thing to dwell on, but it opened our eyes even wider.

  About this time I earned my call sign. Everyone had some type of call sign that we used when talking over the radio. There were rules associated with call signs. Earning a call sign is like being knighted, but instead of a sword on the shoulder from the Queen, it was bestowed by the team. Guys did not pick their own; and you could not do anything about the one bestowed. They could be region based, sport based, ethnic based, or looks based. There was no telling what a group of type A smart-asses might come up with. And if you rebelled against it, it stuck even tighter. We had the guys who were part of the “Boy Band” a.k.a. Nsync. With an age range from mid-twenties to early fifties we covered the entire spectrum of conceivable names. And so it went—you got it, you lived with it. Up to this point, I had been just Frank, and I was fine with that.

  Then the boss made a trip to Kurdistan, and I decided th
at I could use the two days to relax and recharge my batteries. The Peshmerga, the finest members of the Kurdistan military forces who oversaw security up there, were top-shelf guys. After a few trips up there, I realized that the ambassador was quite safe when visiting with the Talabanis or the Barzanis. These two families were the longtime leaders of the Kurdish people and had fought long and hard against Saddam for decades. I told him I would not be going and that Drew would be in charge. He confirmed he was fine with that.

  Later that day, Erik Prince, the owner of Blackwater arrived in-country. He was not there for us, but to take a look at some of the other fledgling start-ups, and to look at other possible business opportunities. I was with about fifteen other Blackwater guys in the Green Zone Café, the first bar and restaurant to open up in the Green Zone. It very quickly became a popular spot for everyone working in the palace area. The food was fair, but the beer was cold. (Unfortunately, the café was blown up via a backpack bomb shortly after Bremer left the country.) Two liquor stores had also opened around this time, so our periodic runs for alcohol into downtown Baghdad or to the duty-free shop at BIAP ended. At least a few of the Iraqis had learned about capitalism, and supply and demand, and that the coalition folks would spend money if they could find what they wanted to buy.

  After a few hours, the mountain of beer cans on the table reached epic proportions, and I warned the guys that we should clean them up just in case anybody walked in.

  Scotty S was sitting next to me. He declared loudly: “Blackwater can kiss my white ass, I work for Frankwater!”

  Cowboy John H quickly repeated the mantra: “Blackwater can kiss my white ass too, I work for Frankwater!”

  The other maniacs roared in approval while I tried to click my heels together three times and wake up in Kansas. I had my radio with me but it was quickly snatched from me while Scotty S and Cowboy John H repeatedly called for Frankwater over the air. I made the colossal mistake of trying to explain why this was a really bad idea. And I got: “Fuck ’em. They always try to fuck us over, and you take care of us. We work for you. Fuck ’em!”

  I sincerely hoped that Erik was not listening. But it was too late even if he wasn’t. These guys had made a decision, and I was stuck with it. The calls to Frankwater quickly went viral, and all I could do was ask for another beer. Eventually, they even made much-coveted Frankwater T-shirts.

  The guys who made that trip to Kurdistan also had an interesting trip. They had flown into a snowstorm in the mountains and the Blackhawks had been in a whiteout situation. They had nearly flown into the side of a mountain on the way to the meeting. Lady Luck was still on our side.

  Bill Miller, now firmly in control as the new regional security officer, knew that we did not have any automatic weapons. I had casually asked if there were any “squad automatic weapons” (SAWs––5.56-caliber fully automatic belt-fed machine guns) around that we could mount in the Little Birds to provide additional firepower in the event one of the intel reports proved to be correct. He promised to keep his ears open and keep me posted. Ken D came to me and said he had access to four SAWs that were being turned in by another government contractor who was leaving the area. I immediately said we wanted them. He told me he would check with Bill Miller, and if I was approved, and if I would sign for them, we could have them. A few hours later I signed for the four SAWs.

  Hacksaw and I talked about how to best utilize the new weapons. He said he wanted them in the Little Birds, but only if he could put the door gunners through a training program. Of course I said yes. Cowboy, Carmine, Hacksaw, and Cat Daddy got together and figured out the best way to mount them, and we started the SAW door gunner program. As luck would have it we did not have enough ammo for the training program, and I had to whore out the helos again before we could become completely and safely operational. At the same time, my magician, Ken, was working some serious deals to get as much SAW ammo in their specific plastic boxes from “friends of the movement” that he could scrounge. He somehow acquired around two thousand rounds and had a line on more. When I asked where and how he got it, he smiled and said, “Don’t ask … you don’t want to know.”

  Ammo in hand, Hacksaw designed a comprehensive program that would enable the door gunners to provide and direct firepower on the designated targets, and not hit the motorcade or shoot down our own helos. It was at this point that my Little Bird education became much better rounded. For instance, Hacksaw explained to me that as the weather went from hot to hotter-than-hell, the lift capability of the helos was hindered. When Hacksaw had asked me to give him door gunners who weighed 180 pounds or less, I thought he had lost his mind. I had been sending guys over who were easily 200 pounds or more. It had never occurred to me that hot air had less density than cooler air, and therefore the helos had to work a lot harder to fly in it. DUH! I apologized, and he just laughed.

  The difference between the semiautomatic Bushmaster M-4s Blackwater had provided and these fully automatic SAWs was daunting. If anybody made the mistake of attacking us, our response now would be much more lethal. And with this increase in lethal capability came an increase in potential liability. Hacksaw and I talked in length about why he would now need designated door gunners who would be at his disposal and available for training whenever possible. Fuck me. I knew he was right, but I was still juggling the number of guys I had to cover the villa, the advance team, the detail team, and office watch.

  And then, just like in the movies, the skies opened up, the stars aligned, and Blackwater got the contract modification it had requested the previous September. The original contract had not included the security staffing at the villa. I got word that I had fourteen additional men inbound. Twelve were designated as villa only, and the other two were coming to me. A few days later I had a contingent of sixty. Hacksaw and I decided that he would need six guys to complement his operation. Four would fly, and two would be on standby if things got ugly. I asked him who he wanted, and he began reviewing the backgrounds of the guys he was considering. Some of the guys were pissed they were chosen, some were pissed they had not been chosen, and some were just pissed off all the time anyway. Just another day in the sandbox.

  Hacksaw chose eight guys to try out and then kept the six he liked best. He was happy, Blackwater was happy, and I was happy that everybody else was happy. The training program was intense. Flying in the Little Birds with former TF-160 pilots for hours at a time is like being strapped to the hood of a Ferrari and driving around a road course at 200 mph. Air sickness was not uncommon. Hacksaw’s only rule was if you barfed, you cleaned it up when you got back. And the ball busting was merciless.

  In Hacksaw’s previous life with TF-160 he had been the lead Little Bird pilot instructor and had devised the Little Bird training program and shooting courses that the spec-ops community still uses today. I could not ask for a better Little Bird mentor. He knew what worked and why it worked. And he could teach it. What a lot of people don’t realize is the Little Birds are not armored helos. A round as small as a .22 could easily take one down. The margin for error in the Little Birds was extremely small, and we relied upon them as our first-line quick reaction force (QRF). If something happened, they would hover over the action and make life miserable for whomever was trying to kill us. Hacksaw knew this, and he pushed the door gunners to be perfect in everything that they did. He also had the unenviable task of training the new pilots who came in. Apparently finding qualified Little Bird drivers is not easy, and he often got guys who had never flown Little Birds. Some had been Blackhawk pilots, Apache pilots, Huey pilots, etc. Just because a guy had been a helo pilot did not mean that he could fly the high-performance sports cars that we were using in a combat zone. Hacksaw would give them no more than ten days to get to the level of performance that he demanded, or he would send them home. Many did not make it. Some just could not grasp the fundamentals, some could not fly with the night vision goggles, and some were just scared. We had one guy who
arrived, took his first training flight, and experienced his first mortar attack on his day one. He quit on his day two. All within thirty-six hours. It took a special breed of pilot to do what these guys were doing—especially when the realization set in that the support system was just us. No one was on standby if one of the helos went down. They were on their own. The adventure and adrenaline rush quickly dissipated for more than a few. It was hard, scary work—a true test of intestinal fortitude.

  February 2004

  As the time approached for the assembled American and Iraqi diplomats to write a constitution for the new Iraq, a thousand different forces pulled Ambassador Bremer in a thousand different directions. We had several Red Zone missions every day, winding up with meetings at the Iraqi Governing Council (IGC) building until late each night. Exasperation began to show on all the diplomats as the divergent groups of Iraqis argued for all their pet projects, each attempting to sway every law and every decision to favor his own special interests. Each day we visited several different politicians before heading over to the IGC, and each evening we witnessed the politicians apparently forgetting the agreements they had made with the Americans earlier in the day.

  My guys were dragging ass. The original villa guys rejoined the detail and advance teams after being replaced by the new, designated villa team and were being trained by the advance team leader and shift leaders on how to do their newly assigned jobs. It was like a sports draft where I allowed each team leader to make a selection to fill the holes left by the newly crowned door gunners. Each group had lost damn good guys to the helos. And they were pissed about their degraded operational capacities. Again, being in charge sucked. Hacksaw was happy, but the two guys I relied upon the most—the shift leader and the advance team leader—were pissed off. Some days you just could not win. I just put my head down and went back to work, convincing myself that one out of three really wasn’t that bad. Hell, in baseball I might have made the Hall of Fame.