by Neryl Joyce
The passport office had only the most basic of facilities. There were four cubicles for passport and visa checking, but only two of them were manned. Foreign security guards, dressed in protective equipment and armed to the teeth, were everywhere. I began to wonder exactly how dangerous the airport was. But, at that moment, actually getting to see any other part of the airport was my first big obstacle.
I didn’t have a visa to enter Iraq. I had been advised that all I needed to do was flash the officials the front page of my security contract, and then they would let me in without question. No dice. In the end, it came down to money. The man with the stamp wanted some, and I had it. After paying him US$50, I was let in.
I picked up my luggage from a broken-down conveyor belt, and headed over to customs – and by ‘customs’, I mean a man sitting behind a small table. I took out my knives, weapon holsters, chest webbing and other war-time toys, but my kit barely roused the man’s interest; he simply waved me through. I walked out the door, scanning for anyone who might be waiting for me. I noticed a tall, skinny man striding my way.
“G’day, Joycee. How are ya?” the beanpole said, leaning over to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. I hesitated slightly until I realised that it was Merlin, an MP mate from way back. I hardly recognised him. It had been about ten years since I’d seen him, and he’d grown a beard in the meantime.
“Mate, what are you doing here?” I asked, as he grabbed one of my bags. Merlin told me he was working as security advance team (SAT) leader for our company. I gave a sigh of relief: I’d know someone on the team – someone well qualified, to boot. Merlin had been a corporal in the army before he got out to work in PNG as a security contractor. He had also done the MP CPP course.
As we walked over to the car park, I asked him about the security situation at the airport. Merlin explained that the area was relatively safe because of its proximity to a huge American base called Camp Victory, which was where we’d be going next. Some of the guys on the team, who were waiting for us by the vehicles, were keen to pick up some supplies. The Green Zone, also known as the International Zone, was a highly fortified area within Baghdad city where our team lived. Everywhere outside the Green Zone and the Camp Victory–airport area was referred to as the Red Zone, and as the name suggests, it was extremely dangerous out there. It had a post exchange (PX) store but it was nothing compared to the one the Americans had. The Camp Victory PX sold a good range of food, clothing and DVDs. It even had a Burger King.
Merlin warned that while this area might be safe, the road we’d need to take to get to the Green Zone was not. Route Irish was known as the BIAP Road, or the Jihad Road to the locals. It was one of the most dangerous roads in the world: many, many people had been killed on it. The 12-kilometre highway was the only route to the airport. As such, both military personnel and civilians often used it, making it a popular target for insurgent attacks.
The insurgents’ tactics varied. Suicide bombers would sometimes drive alongside their target’s car before detonating their explosives. Other times they would stand at the side of the road with their car bonnet raised to give the impression that they’d broken down, waiting for a convoy of security vehicles to pass before they pressed the button. Or the crafty pricks would plant explosives inside dead animals and place them next to the road. They’d drop grenades from overpasses, shoot rocket-propelled grenades and guns from nearby building windows, and set up banks of claymore mines, once again hoping to take out whoever they could. They were indiscriminate in who they targeted: military and security personnel, civilians and locals; they didn’t care as long as the body count kept rising. How do you reason with a bunch of arseholes who don’t even respect their own people, let alone a foreign military force?
Merlin took me to the undercover car park, where I met the rest of the team. The introductions were kept very brief. I noticed that they wore all their tactical kit with large shirts over the top to obscure it. Some had grown beards and were wearing Arabic scarves, known as ‘shemaghs’, around their heads.
A guy named Ghost introduced himself while handing me a Glock pistol. I attached it to my belt. Next, he gave me an AK-47. What a bloody archaic weapon, I thought. I wondered where my M-4 was: my contract from the security company had indicated that it was the team’s weapon of choice. An M-4 has a higher rate of fire, and is more accurate and a lot easier to use than the dinosaur I was currently holding. Ghost must have noticed my raised eyebrows. He told me that the company had not been able to get any M-4s into the country as yet, and that they were using AK-47s in the meantime.
I’d never used one before, but I’d heard its operation was fairly easy to pick up. The AK’s bullet calibre was larger than an M-4’s, so if I had to use it, at least it would leave the target with some damage. If I had to shoot an insurgent to protect myself and the team, then I wanted to do it effectively. The AK-47 was certainly up to the job.
After I was kitted up with weapons, body armour and ammunition, we drove the short distance to Camp Victory. Ghost told me to bat my eyelids at all the checkpoint guards, as I was the only team member without the ID card needed to get into the base. As it turned out, I was able to slip in along with the team, and soon I was stuffing my face with Burger King.
While the other guys went off to buy their supplies, Ghost stayed to keep me company. We had a getting-to-know-you chat: he told me he had a thirteen-year-old son whose mother he’d split from many years ago. He’d recently knocked up another woman, but wasn’t sure if he wanted to be with her either. I asked him about his previous experience, and he explained that he had been a medic in the British army. He’d been attached to the parachute battalion, which I took to mean that he’d worked with a combat unit, but he was a trade-qualified medic.
Ghost went on to say that he was the team medic as well as the counter assault team (CAT) leader. Now I was confused. The role of the CAT is to go in and shoot the shit out of the enemy when the team is under attack. It provides massive fire support so the rest of the team and the client can withdraw somewhere safer. I didn’t understand how someone could be a life preserver at the same time as leading an attack team. Tactically, it was just plain wrong. Moreover, a CAT leader should have considerable tactical knowledge and skills. Ideally, it’s a job for an ex–special forces soldier or, at a pinch, an infantry corporal with a shitload of experience. But a medic? I was sceptical to say the least.
I took a deep breath in. It was way too early to make any judgments. Anyhow, I knew firsthand what it was like to be underestimated. As a woman in this industry, I would have to fight hard to be taken seriously. I was now in a man’s world, and that meant proving I was as capable as, if not better than, my male teammates.
I was no longer an officer in the army. There was no more planning war games, delivering orders or leading my soldiers. I was just a security contractor, paid to follow orders and do my job. And that was what I was going to do.
It’s a shame I couldn’t stick to that plan and keep my mouth shut. It would have saved me a lot of heartache. But shit happens and you find yourself unable to keep quiet any longer. And when you break the silence, all hell breaks loose with it.
THE TIME CAME to leave the safety of Camp Victory and head into the unknown. I lifted my body armour up over my head and onto my shoulders. Heavy and thick, it extended down to the top of my thighs. I tightened the straps around my waist, and adjusted my pistol so that it was within easy grasp. I grabbed my AK-47, hoping that it was zeroed, and loaded a magazine full of rounds onto it. A zeroed weapon is one that has been test-fired to ensure that the bullet goes where you want it to. It can mean the difference between life and death in a hostile environment.
I was given a run-down of our strategy for getting back to the Green Zone: we’d be driving down Route Irish as fast as we could, trying not to get hit. Funny, yes, but I was interested in the actual plan, which no one in the team seemed to want to share. As far as they were concerned, they were providing me with an
armed escort back to the Green Zone, treating me as if I were a client they were hired to protect.
I was happy enough with that idea, even though it perplexed me why they wouldn’t want to use me as an extra shooter. I made the best of it and decided to use the trip to take a good look at the situation I was heading into. I would be able to observe topography, roads, bridges, people and other cars on the roads. It would also allow me to observe how my team operated in this environment and the tactics they employed.
I climbed into the back seat of the ‘client vehicle’ and instantly realised it was not armoured. In fact, none of the vehicles was armoured. The first vehicle, known as the ‘advance team’, was a ten-year-old BMW car. The second vehicle, the client car, was also an old BMW. The third vehicle, which carried the CAT, was a wagon.
These cars wouldn’t protect those inside them from a rock let alone a bullet or a rocket-propelled grenade. This was going to be a game of chance, with the prize being arriving in the Green Zone alive. Bugger their idea of treating me like a client. I wanted more ammo before I was going anywhere. One magazine was just not enough!
The driver of my vehicle was a guy named Baloo. He was an ex–British royal marine who had close personal protection experience. I asked him if there were any more AK magazines. He couldn’t believe I had only been given the one.
“You’ll need these more than I will,” Baloo said, throwing his backpack my way. Inside were about ten full magazines. “If we get into trouble, you’ll need to open fire on the enemy so that I can concentrate on driving.” It was the best plan I’d heard so far. I sat in the back seat and set myself up for the trip down Route Irish. My ammo was within easy reach for quick magazine changes, and I held my AK at the ready.
I sat directly behind Baloo so that I could scan the road to his left and to the rear of our left-hand-drive vehicle. I didn’t know much about the guy in the front passenger seat, but I knew he would be scanning the front and right-hand side of the vehicle. All in all, we had a 360-degree view around our vehicle.
Baloo turned over the engine, and we started out, passing through a number of military checkpoints. I could see there was only one more between us and Route Irish. The call came over the radio for everyone to “make their weapons ready”. I cocked my AK and placed my thumb on the safety catch. If we were attacked, all I would have to do was release the safety and let the bullets fly.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead, gritted my teeth and lightly brushed the cross – a gift from my mother – that I wore around my neck. This was it. We moved through the final checkpoint, and then we were off. Large concrete walls flanked the road, but they were only there to protect the checkpoint area. In a matter of metres, there were no more walls: we were out in the open.
I noticed that the advance vehicle was way out in front of us, and the CAT vehicle way behind. Effectively, there was no protection for our vehicle – the client vehicle. This went against everything I had learnt about close protection. If we were attacked, neither vehicle would be close enough to provide blocking drills to protect us. Maybe they were running this way because I was not a ‘real client’? Maybe the strategy was different because we were in soft-skinned vehicles and not armoured ones? Maybe this was just how it was done in Iraq?
As we raced along Route Irish we passed open fields and then old square buildings, which sat on either side of the double-lane highway. The buildings were about 200 metres from the road, and looked to be an excellent place for an insurgent to take a pot shot at us. The traffic was light so we were able to weave in and out of it with little problems. As we passed cars, I glanced inside. There were old men driving alone. There were families of six squashed in all together. Some women wore headscarves; others were dressed in black robes that covered everything apart from a small window showing their eyes. The men wore shirts I suspected had been unloved since the seventies, and the children looked no different to any kid back home. Not many wore what I thought of as traditional Arabic garb. These were just normal people going about their lives.
We continued to tear-arse along the road. As we got closer to the Green Zone, the buildings seemed to close in on us. Along this stretch, the buildings were about 20 metres from the road. I searched for snipers on rooftops or anyone peering out of a window. Traffic grew denser and vehicles began to drive closer to us. I scanned vehicles more intently now, looking for weapons or any suspicious behaviour from passengers.
As we neared the first overpass, I heard the call that the bridge was clear. I knew that meant there was no obvious sign of anyone hanging around, waiting to drop a grenade on us from above. After going through the underpass, Baloo began to slow down. We were approaching the Green Zone checkpoint.
Our car eased closer to the checkpoint. With some of the team wearing their shemaghs, it was easy for the soldiers to mistake them for locals, Baloo said. If we approached the checkpoint too quickly, or before we’d been waved forwards by the soldiers, we risked being shot at by friendly forces. So we pulled up with care, eyeing the other vehicles around us. I hoped desperately that no one was feeling like blowing themselves up that day.
We made it through the checkpoint and into the Green Zone. Baloo visibly relaxed: his shoulders dropping and his frown lines easing. The zone’s perimeter was lined with huge concrete walls, and there were gun posts set up at regular intervals around the boundary. The greatest threat to those within the Green Zone came from mortar attacks, where insurgents fired rockets from outside the perimeter. On the occasions the insurgents managed to get a few rounds inside, the US military were quick to react, sending out a counter-strike force to deal with them.
After turning off onto a dirt road and driving around some back streets, Baloo pulled up outside a large two-storey building. This was our team house.
As I helped to unpack the equipment from the cars, I took a good look around. There were guards stationed at the top of our street. They were locals hired by the company that had its headquarters across the road from us. There was also a guard stationed outside our house. He didn’t look that impressive, though. I thought he might be more of an early-warning device than anything else. I said hello to him, and then walked into the front yard of our house.
I didn’t know what the rules were for carrying weapons around the house but it seemed polite to unload my AK before I went inside. There were no unloading bays that I could see, so I did my drills in the garden, pointing my weapon at the ground. Bays are used in military environments to provide a safe area for unloading your weapon. If you accidentally discharge your weapon while unloading it, the bullet hits the bay, and not, say, your mate.
I soon found out that there were no rules about carrying loaded weapons indoors; people just did whatever they wanted. They could walk into the house with their weapons at the ready, and keep them that way. Or they could unload them in their bedroom if they chose to. What a change from the army! Despite the lack of weapon-status rules, I was warned that if I fired an ‘unauthorised’ shot, I’d be sacked on the spot and sent home.
After twelve years in the military without any unauthorised discharges, I would make damn sure there wasn’t a black mark next to my name as a civilian. After carefully clearing my weapon, I headed into the house with all my kit. Ghost took me to my room, which was on the second floor. To get to it, we had to pick our way through a large bedroom that housed five guys. My room was small, and set up with two single beds, but I would have it to myself. I was happy to have my own space, but not impressed that I’d have to walk through a room full of guys in order to get there. I could see all sorts of problems arising.
As well as the beds, the room had two double-sized cupboards – plenty of room for my clothes and equipment. Several old Arabic rugs lined the cement floor, providing some protection from the cold. Iraq was heading into winter, and the mornings and evening were already chilly. An air-conditioner, with dodgy electrical wiring protruding at all angles, was mounted on the wall.
It was getting d
ark and I was exhausted. All the excitement and jet lag were catching up to me. Ghost told me to relax and get an early night: I wasn’t needed for anything more that evening, and I would begin my induction into the team the next day. After chatting for a short while with other team members, I made my excuses and went to bed. I thought of Kane as I pulled back the covers but was asleep within seconds of my head touching the pillow.
I awoke early the next morning, feeling refreshed. I dressed quickly and sneaked out through the guys’ room, trying not to disturb anyone. I crept down the stairs and into the kitchen. I noted the basic cooking facilities, but what I was really after was a hot cup of coffee.
I turned on the coffee pot and heated up a fresh brew of strong coffee. This was just what I needed. I grabbed my mug and wandered into the large lounge area. There was a huge television in the corner and maps and important-looking documents hanging on the noticeboards. As I sipped my coffee and read the tidbits of information on the boards, I could hear stirring from the floor above.
The aroma of fresh coffee had wafted throughout the house, and a bunch of bleary-looking men came stumbling into the lounge room, searching for the source of the delicious smell. After pouring several more cups of coffee, I smiled to myself. Today was the start of my new career. I was a member of the security team hired to protect the nine Iraqi electoral commissioners.
THAT MORNING, Ghost gave me some background information on our clients. The nine members of the Independent Electoral Commission of Iraq were responsible for organising and promoting the country’s first democratic election since Saddam Hussein had been forced from power in 2003. The elections were due to take place in January 2005. According to the US grading system that ranked the threat level posed to high-profile citizens, the commissioners were ‘tier one’ targets, alongside principal military officers, members of government and other political leaders. Some of the commissioners had even had a fatwa placed on them, meaning Islamic extremists had issued a religious decree that they be killed. So, our clients were right at the top on the insurgents’ hit list – I had wanted a challenge and here one was. There was a good reason security contractors were paid so well.