by Neryl Joyce
I was set.
At one o’clock we drove over to the commissioners’ workplace. Stu and I walked into the building, with an extra suit of body armour for Number Three. As we strode through the corridors, office workers began to chatter to each other and look at us. They knew something was going on. We knocked on Number Three’s door and told her it was time to leave.
In an effort to be warm and welcoming, Stu attempted to shake hands with her. Immediately, Number Three shrieked and hid behind me. In Islam, touching a member of the opposite sex to whom you are not related is prohibited. I was surprised that this had not been part of the briefing. Stu apologised profusely and handed me the body armour before quickly leaving the room.
I explained to Number Three that I had some body armour, which would protect her while she was out in the Red Zone. I asked if she’d put it on. I might as well have asked her to dance for me. It didn’t matter how much I told her about the risk, she was adamant that she was not going to wear it. I radioed through to Stu to tell him what was going on. He came in and also tried to persuade Number Three to wear the body armour, but again she refused.
As security personnel, we have a duty of care to encourage the client in the strongest possible terms to wear the protection for their own safety. If a client refuses, there isn’t much to be done about it: they are the ones paying the bills. I warned Number Three that her level of protection would be lower than if she wore the armour. I don’t know if it interfered too much with the placement of her head scarf, or if she just felt too embarrassed to wear it public when other Iraqis had no protection? Either way, she would not be swayed.
Stu and I escorted Number Three down to the waiting vehicle. Stu said I’d have to share the back seat with her, thanks to there being ‘two bodyguards’. This wasn’t normal, and went against everything I knew to be the best way to keep our client safe. Smokey would sit in the front, ready to react if ‘something happened’.
I was still unclear on what my role was supposed to be in that situation. If the shit hit the fan, my first reaction would be to cover Number Three. There was no way I would just hide and wait for Smokey to take over. I talked it over with Stu and he understood. As far as he was concerned, Smokey was just along for the ride.
At the university, we got out of the vehicle and I started to escort Number Three to the Red Room. Usually a bodyguard will walk slightly behind the client, remaining as unobtrusive as possible. Number Three didn’t want me walking behind her; she wanted me right next to her. That was fine with me: it meant I could provide far better protection for her. At times she would even hold my arm to keep me close. It was plain to see that having a woman on the team was invaluable. We had built up a rapport and she trusted me. Number Three felt happy and safe with me because we were both women.
It can be intimidating and off-putting to be surrounded by so many big, fierce-looking men. If I – a strong-willed woman who has worked with men for many years – could feel that way at times, I could only imagine how someone like Number Three would feel. At any rate, having me around made the client feel a lot more comfortable, and seeing her vulnerable like that just made me feel more protective of her. She was my client, she needed me, and I would protect her. I wouldn’t let her down.
We entered the Red Room, and straightaway people swarmed around Number Three. Locals in their dozens had turned up to listen to her presentation, and wanted to have a few words with her. As the audience took their seats, I stood off to the side of the room, still within five metres of Number Three. Before the speech kicked off, I had been offered a seat several times. I initially refused, wanting to be ready to spring into action should something happen. I soon realised, however, that it was far better just to accept their generosity.
As Number Three delivered her presentation, I studied each member of the crowd. I looked for concealed weapons, agitated faces and restlessness. Some of them were busy studying me back, but most were focused on Number Three. She received thunderous applause at the end of her speech. Everyone wanted to thank her, but time was slipping away. She told me she wanted to leave so I carefully blocked her fans with my body and ushered her out of the building. As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry about that issue with Smokey. During the operation, he didn’t go anywhere near the client. He just stood outside, lighting up fag after fag.
The cars were outside waiting for us. We got into the vehicles and slowly rolled out of the university. We dropped Number Three back off at work. I walked her up to her office and she looked into my eyes and thanked me for being with her. I said goodbye and left, smiling to myself.
The day had gone well. I felt I had cemented my position on the team. My teammates even commented that they hadn’t realised I was so switched on. I chose to take that as a compliment, but really I was just happy that my skills were being put to good use.
IT WAS ANOTHER run-of-the-mill day at the commissioners’ workplace, except that it was Thanksgiving. I walked across to the Al Rasheed with a couple of the American guys for lunch. After waiting in an extremely long queue, behind hundreds of soldiers, I was stunned when I entered the food hall. Streamers in red, white and blue were strung along the walls. Tables overflowing with food were everywhere: they were covered with turkey, baked potatoes, cranberry sauce and pecan pies. There were ice sculptures, butter sculptures, gingerbread houses and cakes. Thanksgiving was something I had only ever seen on sitcoms. I treasured sharing this occasion with my American teammates. Together we gave thanks for the wonderful food we were served, the friends we had made and our safety in Iraq so far.
I sat down with the two brothers, Wolf and Blade, as well as another guy named 51-50, who was a dead spit for Vin Diesel, with a tough exterior but a heart of gold. Ghost was always giving him shit about looking too gung-ho on the road: 51-50 refused to dress in local get-up, preferring to wear his protective kit and carry numerous weapons as overtly as possible. I didn’t agree with Ghost; 51-50’s appearance was in line with his job. He worked as part of the heavy weapons section of the CAT. They had to be gunned up and ready to impose massive amounts of firepower in order to get the rest of us out of the shit if insurgents struck. Besides, he was concealed in the back of the wagon. Who was going see him? I thought the reason Ghost didn’t like him was that 51-50 was an ex–navy SEAL, and very experienced in the world of security contracts. Perhaps there was some jealousy at play.
A few months back, 51-50 had been a member of a team providing security to a convoy travelling across the Iraqi desert. His team (or, more specifically, his vehicle) was hit with an IED. As he had been the only team member wearing full protective equipment, including hearing protection, 51-50 found himself the only one capable of reacting. When the noise of the explosion reverberated throughout the vehicle, shock set in and the ‘fog of war’ descended, leaving the other teammates stunned.
But 51-50 was able to fire back at the insurgents (most IED attacks are followed by small-arms fire). He was then able to drag his mates to safety before the other vehicles in his team came to his aid. Ghost could say whatever he wanted about 51-50, but it fell on deaf ears as far as I was concerned. Despite 51-50’s tough appearance, his personality was completely different. He was really quite in touch with his spiritual side, and was just a nice guy. Thanksgiving was one of the best days I had with my teammates.
Ghost, Merlin and Stu were due to fly out soon. They were all taking leave over the Christmas period, and there had been a mad scramble to appoint replacements when they realised at the last minute that their dates overlapped. It seemed problematic to have three team leaders on leave at the same time, but what did I know.
Jeep would take over from Stu as the overall team leader. Silver, a short, medium-build man in his forties, would become the advance team leader and Wolf the CAT commander. There was also the problem of what to do with their kit. Normally, it would be packed up, and when the person returned, they’d unpack their stuff wherever a spare bed was available.
T
he old team leaders weren’t happy with that idea. They wanted to come back to their original beds. They didn’t want to risk having to share a room with the other teammates, especially the Americans, after they came back. Already they driven Mr Happy out of their room as the guys kept making derogatory comments towards him. Ghost and Merlin put their heads together and came up with a solution: I was turfed out of my room, and moved into theirs. They argued that because I was close friends with them and Jeep, who they also shared with, they were suitable roommates. That way, they would be able to keep their beds free, as it was not appropriate that I share a room with anyone else. To give me some privacy, Merlin rearranged a couple of cupboards and strung up a curtain to screen off my small corner. I did still count these boys as my good friends, but there was something cavalier and unthinking about the way they were acting. The only things they considered when making decisions were matters that directly affected them.
Stu, Ghost and Merlin left the country the morning after they’d come up with the room-swap idea, and Jeep and I were left bunking together. Ghost hugged me goodbye, and whispered that he’d email me while he was gone, something I was not bothered about either way. I sort of liked him, but sort of didn’t. I did not want to confuse the feeling of being wanted with love.
*
Jeep was now in charge. As he was my friend and now roommate, I thought the new command structure would give me the chance to have some subtle input on tactical matters. Jeep could choose to use my advice or ignore it, of course, but at least it wouldn’t feel quite as if I was just yelling into the void.
That was not how things worked out. It was Silver who ended up really running the team. He was good friends with Jeep, but could recognise that his mate struggled with command issues. Every night, Silver would take Jeep through the rotation of personnel working at the Convention Center. The simple act of staff rostering was too much for our team leader, and recording it on a spreadsheet was downright impossible. I assisted Jeep with all things to do with the computer, while Silver wrote orders on a whiteboard for Jeep to recite.
It was not so bad to start off with, but things steadily grew worse. All the paperwork and other admin slipped through the cracks. The Americans were no longer accepting passports for entry into their gym facilities, and the company could not organise alternate passes for us. No gym facilities meant no fitness training. I was desperate to keep up my fitness level, so I’d do whatever necessary to ensure it was maintained. That said, I didn’t have a death wish. I was not going to put myself in an unsafe position by running around the Green Zone. Instead, I ran up and down our 200-metre-long street. It was less than ideal: the street was close to a dirt track and often very muddy; the generators ran nonstop outside the houses, filling the air with smoke fumes; and the local security guards would stare at me.
Frustrated at being gawked at like a freak, I changed to running up and down the stairs at the house. There were four flights of stairs and the rooftop, where I could do circuit training afterwards. Tomahawk, a Native American guy on my team, would practise his knife-fighting drills on the roof, as I skipped, did push-ups and squats, and shuttle ran to the music on my iPod.
Tomahawk was a quiet man, and he looked out for me. He was separated with two lovely children back in America. He wanted to earn as much as possible so that he could put them through college and give them a good life. One day, he showed me a letter he had written for his kids and some sacred items he wanted passed on to his children should anything happen to him in Iraq. He had a ritual involving these keepsakes that he would follow each time he left on a mission.
I was very touched that he had shared something so special and personal. We often spoke about our kids and how much they meant to us. I told Tomahawk that I had written two letters that would go to my son in the event I was killed in Iraq: a child’s version; and another that he could read after he turned eighteen. There are some things that can’t be explained to a child. I told Tomahawk that writing those letters was the hardest thing I had ever done.
Tomahawk looked at me with knowing eyes. He seemed to understand a lot more than he let on. He told me that my son loved me and that I would be with him again. He then gave me a set of rosary beads his boy had made at school. He wanted me to have them for good luck and as a reminder of our friendship. It was a moment I would remember for the rest of my life.
A WEEK OR SO BEFORE Christmas, I got wind of a big operation: our female client, Number Three, was giving another talk about the upcoming Iraqi elections, this time at the Babylon Hotel. There would be high-ranking Iraqi officials from all over the country attending. The reconnaissance party was to be small: four people, including me, and one vehicle.
The Babylon Hotel was out in the Red Zone. It was only a short distance from the entrance to the Green Zone, but still a long way from help if we needed it. We dressed as discreetly as we could, and attempted to hide our weapons beneath our coats. Now, to hide a pistol is no big deal, but to keep an AK-47 out of sight is a little trickier.
Silver, Baloo, Mr Happy and I all piled into an armoured car. We kept in touch with the team house via mobile phone, an unreliable tool, but it was all we had available to us. No one paid us much attention as we weaved through the heavy traffic. Ours was just another car on the road. After the last checkpoint it wasn’t long till I spotted the Babylon Hotel: it was a massive box-shaped building that loomed over the city like a pyramid.
We parked the car, concealed our weapons as well as we could, and made our way into the hotel. Silver took the hotel manager aside to discuss details. I took a look around, as did Baloo and Mr Happy. The hotel was huge, lined with big glass doors and marble floors. None of the amenities seemed as though they’d been replaced in a long while, but everything was kept immaculately clean.
The manager led us to a big auditorium, which was where the meeting would take place. I started filming with the video camera, taking footage of our possible escape routes, safe rooms, and entry and exit points. Satisfied we’d gathered enough information about the area and knew exactly how the operation was going to run, we drove home. Silver took off to prepare the orders for the next day.
The following morning went like clockwork. We’d arrived at the hotel and Number Three was ushered into the auditorium and shown around. She was jumpy and much more nervous than during her last presentation. Number Three made it quite clear to me that no one was to take her photo during her speech. She was absolutely terrified of the ramifications for her family should the local paper print a photo of her, identifying her as a pro-democracy supporter. I informed Jeep of her fears and he assured us both that no photos would be taken. Number Three looked relieved and continued to prepare for her talk.
About an hour into her speech, I noticed one of the audience members begin to fiddle around with a camera bag. As soon as I realised that he was getting ready to photograph Number Three, I motioned to Jeep that he needed to intervene.
Jeep looked at me with a dumb expression on his face and did nothing. I motioned again. I couldn’t speak to him. There had not been enough radios to go around, and I had drawn the short straw once again. Jeep was only about 10 metres away from me, but still did not move. I realised he was not going to do anything about the cameraman. I didn’t know if Jeep was too shy to walk out in front of the seated audience members and make a fuss, or if he just didn’t take the security risk to Number Three seriously. As Number Three’s bodyguard, I had to remain close to her at all times. In the end, though, I had to make a decision.
Did I stay by the side of my client and let the photographer do his worst, knowing that this was what she was deathly afraid of happening? Or did I commit a bodyguard no-no and leave her side to confiscate the camera myself? I weighed up the risks and decided that she would be safe for the half a minute it would take to deal with the photographer – but I wasn’t happy about it. I would have to trust my team to save Number Three should anything happen during the precious seconds I left her side.
Leaving the photographer in the assistant’s capable hands, I returned to Number Three’s side. I was gone only thirty seconds, but it seemed a lot longer. I was seething at the company for not having enough radios. I was seething at Jeep for not having stopped the photographer himself. I was seething at the other team members for not reacting. There were four other security team members in the room and none of them did anything about the photographer. Jeep could have dealt with the photographer himself, or sent any one of the team members to do it for me. I shouldn’t have had to leave my client’s side.
I was pretty pissed off at the debriefing when we got back to the team house. Jeep told me I was wrong to leave the client. He was right, but I made it pretty fucking clear that my hand had been forced. He should have done something about it when I indicated the photographer to him in the first place. He knew the client’s wishes. He was the leader. Jeep proceeded to blame other members of the team for not intervening, despite their pleas that they hadn’t even seen the cameraman. Jeep had a radio and could have easily radioed a member of the team to deal with the situation.
I was getting really frustrated. I was used to the Australian Army. There, we worked as a team; we communicated and we helped each other out. If someone had to deal with a threat, the rest were there to back the member up. This was not how they rolled in this team. No one was being trained properly, people were stepping into jobs they weren’t qualified to perform, and there was no group solidarity.