“No, Tim, I’m not, but sometimes I get involved with law enforcement people. That’s all I am saying.”
Tim thought back, “What on earth is Blackwater? I’ve heard the name, it seems like.”
Galloway had to think about where to begin.
“Blackwater is a weaponry training site in eastern North Carolina. It is owned by a former Navy SEAL, who I happen to know. It employs the best instructors there are. It teaches you to handle all sorts of small arms for military and law enforcement purposes.
“Some of the best shooters in the services come to Blackwater to polish their skills. It happens that the center’s chief sniper instructor is a friend. I can get you on with him.
“You will be a dog robber—the lowest peasant on the totem pole. If you get paid at all it will be a pittance.
“But, you will meet, live with, train with, and I could hope eventually teach, some of the finest SEAL, Secret Service, FBI, CIA, and local law enforcement types in the nation. You can learn more about accurate shooting and the best weapons in three months at Blackwater than you would in four years in the military or as a SWAT guy in some Police Department.
Tim showed little acceptance, so Shooter elaborated and planned further.
“You could, for instance, attend a police academy before you decide on anything big. Or, you could immediately sign up as a student for a Blackwater marksmanship course. Going down as a student would show you how things are run and give you a taste of what it would be like to work in their sniper program.
“After that, assuming they would have you, you could hire on for any amount Colonel Rock would pay you and learn how it is to be part of a team of cutting-edge shooters, soldiers, and law enforcement officers.”
Galloway paused to see how Tim was adjusting to the ideas. Well, he wasn’t hating them. That seemed clear.
“I’ll tell you, Tim, if you do any or all of the above, you will discover a camaraderie that goes far beyond explaining. Men who serve their country in life and death situations bond tighter than descriptions allow. Trust me, that experience is one to treasure for your lifetime.”
Tim said, “You should sign on as a recruiter.”
Galloway sounded rueful. “Yeah, I can get carried away with this all-man kind of stuff. I served in both Iraq and Afghanistan, two tours, you will remember, Tim. I was a Marine Corps grunt and an Army Commissioned Officer. I wouldn’t sell those memories for any amount of money.
“Of course, men get killed in war. So if you choose to serve there is that possibility.
“That is not news, and most come through undamaged.
“Most profit from their shared experiences and are better men because of their service.”
Shooter closed as personal as he could make it. “The military gave me a lot, Tim. It knocked out boyish imaginings. I got to see some of the world as it really is, and it opened my chance to hold the job I enjoy right now.
“In weighing all of this advice and information, you could suppose that after you’ve had your taste of successful military service you would be a heck of a lot more qualified to check out what I do as a lifelong occupation—a job that I know you would like.
“And, pardner, like me, you might even turn a tidy profit doing it.”
Book Two—the man
10
The important man from Fabrique Nationale had just done it again. The man was a Belgian Colonel, or something, and his English was adequate, but he failed to remember American names. Too often, he forgot Tim Carlisle’s name and simply called him Jack.
The nickname was not good because the marksmanship instructor team had a number of Jacks assigned and on duty, and there happened to be two students who also answered to Jack. It could get confusing.
The FN man was not part of the Blackwater program. He had been allotted range time because he had a new sniper rifle to display and check out, and everyone wanted to know.
All were interested, not only because a new rifle was something every shooter wished to be familiar with, but FN America was a super-large corporation that handed out a lot of free ammunition to almost anyone involved.
At the moment, the FN Colonel was behind his gun, and Tim was spotting for him. At one hundred yards with his twenty-power spotting scope, Tim could detect bullet holes, and he vigorously announced each hit so that the shooter could hear through his protective earmuffs. No matter how loudly Tim yelled, the Colonel usually failed to hear and bellowed back at least as strongly, “Vas, Jack?”
The FN big man had arrived with a retired Gunnery Sergeant as his advisor and his primary coach. The ex-marine invariably answered for Tim by powerfully announcing, “Jack said it’s a ten at eight o’clock Colonel.” Then he looked over the Colonel’s prone body and grinned at the exasperated spotter.
The Blackwater thing had started on a firing day when, before he could respond to the colonel’s “Vas Jack?” every Jack in the outfit had shouted in unison, “What Jack?”
Astonished, the FN man had pointed to Tim and announced, “Why zis Jack, Blackwater Jack.” He sounded surprised that everyone did not know.
With mirth in his voice, one of the Jack’s had said, “Oh, that Jack, Blackwater Jack,” and that had really started it. For the rest of the day, every joker, prankster, and cynic on the line spoke to Blackwater Jack. The FN guy never caught on. He noticed nothing, and that increased the entertainment.
Tim was often spotting because no one else wanted the job. The FN rifle was terrific; the shooter was not.
It was all in fun, but the joking did not die a normal overuse death. Tim usually had to answer whether the name was simply Jack, or Blackwater, or the two combined. Before the week was out, nearly everyone at Blackwater Training Center was calling him Jack and often introduced him as Blackwater Jack.
N. A. Rock was no help. The retired Marine liked a gag as well as the next. He filled his assignment roster with Blackwater Jack performing services. He raised no objections when someone in the sniper program would enthusiastically shout, “Which Jack?” and everyone within hearing would return with “Blackwater Jack”—followed by laughter. Tim endured with chagrined smiles, but he hoped it would be forgotten when the FN guy departed.
The FN team finished, and the Marksmanship Class graduated. A new one came in. Within an hour of hitting the classrooms someone asked powerfully, “Which Jack?” and the new students were introduced to the now routinely thundered, “Blackwater Jack.” Juvenile, Tim believed.
As usual, Tim got the less desired tasks. He pulled and pasted targets, he loaded ammo magazines, he coached and he spotted. He lugged equipment back and forth between the bermed ranges at one hundred yard intervals, except when the shooting retreated to the one thousand yard line or even the twelve hundred yard berms. Then they used a truck.
North Carolina could be sweltering in the summer, and Tim had been performing grunt work for a full month. He was ten pounds lighter, and his endurance, both mental and physical, had increased dramatically. When they weren’t shooting, the law officers and the military men seemed to believe that running was the only optional activity. When they went, their shared dog robber went, too.
As Shooter Galloway had advised, the best of America’s fighting men did not strive for ultimate strength. They worked hardest toward ever better endurance. Strength? Sure, but lasting long was more immediately important.
So, they ran. Tim’s body looked less like a village blacksmith’s and more like an agile and whippy-strong sword fighter. Tim could feel the difference. He doubted he could still lift the heaviest weights, but most of his former strength would remain, and he would never become a skinny-armed nerdy type. Instead, he was quicker and more supple. An excellent trade-off, Tim figured.
Most of the “war-headed” contractors being trained by Blackwater Training Center for service in the Middle East had been Special Forces in one of the services. Tim noted that, with a few exceptions, they possessed a lean, slim-muscled swordsman’s body, and even f
ollowing their military or other federal careers, they still ran the miles necessary to remain trim.
Tim remembered an old prizefighter his Uncle Dog had known who claimed that you could do without some of the between fights exercising, but you had to do the roadwork. The more the better, as long as you did not fine your body down to the long distance runner’s emaciated look. Extremes rarely worked in any activity.
Of course, Tim got to shoot. When he had signed on, N. A. Rock had promised that in partial return for his pit-bottom labors he would be taught to shoot until he had reached his personal limitations. And that promise was being kept.
Simply being around, living the life so to speak, improved Tim Carlisle’s shooting abilities. He learned from observing and listening. He learned a lot, he was quick to recognize, but it was the trigger time with world-class coaching at his shoulder that leapt his abilities a hundred fold.
On occasion, Colonel Rock had personally coached an awed and heart-pounding Tim Carlisle in a shooting position. Rock proved to be as regular as the man next door, but he knew things, and Tim intended to absorb every word as if each were biblical.
In the supported prone position, Rock recommended shooting like a Marine sniper using his pack for support and aligning his body straight behind the rifle with both spread legs equally straight. The Army and most other services positioned their shooters at an angle to their rifles, and some allowed the right leg to be bent at the knee—to ease pressure on the chest, it was said.
Other superb shooters chose the Army way, and claimed it was more comfortable for long hours when retaining strength became difficult. Tim Carlisle resolved to learn both techniques.
At least as important as shooting was the barracks’ time. All students and instructors lived in the “bunkhouse.” During evening free time most gathered in the recreation room to argue and discuss. Stories flowed, and many were informative tales that could never have been publicly acknowledged. Among like-minded and similarly experienced warriors, understanding was immediately acquired.
Tim Carlisle listened and learned. Although he had little to offer, within his first month Tim had adopted the rhythm, pace, and much of the vocabulary of soldierly storytelling. He was becoming one of the knowledgeable sharp-shooting fraternity polishing their skills on the Blackwater ranges.
Often students failed to realize that Blackwater Jack, their fellow student and sometimes instructor, lacked personal military or law enforcement experience. Tim was there, and he was participating, therefore, he must be one of them. Tim silently gloried in that acceptance.
On one memorable occasion Tim was coaching a decorated veteran of both Iraq deployments and the still developing war in Afghanistan. The sailor was recognized as a member of the secretive SEAL Team 6.
Suddenly aware, and utterly embarrassed, Tim said, “My gosh, Mister Jackson, who am I to be coaching you? I’ll get someone more qualified.”
Jackson leaned from his gun and held up a restraining hand. “Hold it, Jack. I am the student here. I do not know everything, and I am here to learn anything anyone has to offer. If you were not qualified, Colonel Rock would not have you on the firing line. You inform and correct, and I will do my best to adjust and comply.”
Tim did his best and did not groan over the “Jack” nickname until later.
In late afternoon, Rock spoke to Jackson. “Jerry, didn’t you do a lot of over-watch for deployed Army units in Falujah?”
“More than I like to remember, Colonel.”
“With that employment in mind, will you take a little time and give Jack any pointers that come to mind? He can absorb them and pass them to the rest of us.”
Jackson made no disclaiming efforts. He said, “Sure, Colonel, here at the three hundred yard line is a good place to begin. We’ll just swap positions; I’ll coach and stick in anything that might be useful.”
Rock walked away, and Tim saw his chance.
“My name really isn’t Jack, Mister Jackson. It’s Tim. An FN guy started calling me Jack, and it’s stuck longer than I would like.”
They switched positions with Tim behind the rifle, and Jackson settled in along his right side.
“I know who you are, but having a nickname can come with being part of a team. Nicknames may appear and depart as times and people change, but don’t fight yours. To all of us, Blackwater Jack has meaning.”
The SEAL smiled grimly, “I won’t tell you some of the names I picked up on different deployments. Most have fallen away, but when I meet certain pals, there they are again with everyone wanting to know why I was called that. Believe me, it’s part of the game we play in life. If it sticks, then you will know that it fits, and that is about all you can do.”
Jackson did know things. He said, “Most of the buildings in the Middle East have flat roofs. Try not to look over the top of the roof ramparts. Your head will stick up like it was a bull’s eye. You know that rule from basic sniping, but forgetting it in Iraq can be deadly.
“Another point is that if you get onto a roof and there is a hole knocked through the rampart at just about where you would want one to sight and observe through—stay away from it.
“If there is a sniper working, he will have that hole and any more like it on his range card. He will know just how to hold and how it looks when no one is blocking the light.
“If you need a hole, and you probably will, make a number of them, and keep moving from one to another. The old adage of shoot and scoot still applies.
“If our enemies were as good as the snipers our side encountered back in WWII they would drop mortar or artillery fire on where they think we are. These ragheads lack that capability or training, but they have learned to watch a hole for light changes or rifle barrels sticking through. Then they will shoot right into it.”
Jackson asked, “Have you met Carlos? He still gets around now and then.”
“I benefited a ton or more from classes when I went through the Scout Sniper school years ago. Rules then were hard-learned in Vietnam. I found they still hold in our current wars, and they will be like gold in whatever battles we get dumped into.
“Listen close to all that you hear, judge its usefulness, and use it when you can. Hey, maybe you will make it through. Most do, you know.”
— — —
One evening, Shooter Galloway appeared. Many knew him, and that N. A. Rock welcomed him did not surprise Tim Carlisle. He had noted that the fighting men he encountered made it a point to meet and remember each other. Galloway had been a combat rifleman in both the Army and the Corps. His shooting had made a difference, and men remembered and were honored and pleased to meet him. Some addressed him as Major Galloway, but most just called him Shooter.
Galloway asked, “How’s it going, Jack?” And Tim wanted to spit.
“Don’t get used to that Backwater Jack crap, Gabe. It won’t last past this galley slave job you got me into down here.”
Galloway smiled, “Sure it will, Blackwater. I’m spreading it all over Perry County. Folks back home seem to like it.”
Tim groaned aloud.
Shooter said, “Come on, let’s go over here where we can talk without interruption.” He half-dragged Tim to a soft looking sofa/chair/round table set and plopped himself down in the most comfortable looking seat. Tim chose a chair where his head was equal in height to Galloway’s. He didn’t intend to be talked down to this night.
Shooter asked, “All joking aside, how is it going, Tim?”
Tim tried to be straight about it. “Damned well, Shooter. I’ve learned so much I am bursting. Getting to coach some really super shooters puts a point on what I am learning, and I’ll tell you honestly, I really can shoot pretty decently these days.”
Galloway nodded acceptance. “That’s good to hear, Tim, and Colonel Rock has told me the same. He is pleased with your work and your shooting—and trust me, his approval does not come easily. You earned it, or he would have said otherwise.
“But what about the rest of
it? Have you learned to live close with a bunch of opinionated, hard-assed men who actually have seen the enemy either in the military or in law enforcement? Can you blend in? Do you like it? Do you like the men you live with? Do you … “
Tim cut him off. “I get it, Shooter. Quit sounding like a doting grandfather, and I will answer. God, you would think I was just entering high school and had attended my first summer camp or something.”
Tim began, “This Blackwater Jack stuff makes me sick. It all started with … .”
“Tim, it doesn’t matter how it started. It just is, and you should be appreciative of having a nickname that isn’t disgusting. Hey, they could have labeled you ‘Stinky’ or maybe ‘Puke’ I’ve known guys to have those names.
“I like Blackwater Jack. It sounds like a guy who has been somewhere and done something. What do you want to be called the rest of your life, ‘Timmy?’ Good God!”
“I get that, too, Galloway, but Blackwater Jack sounds like a movie pirate.”
Shooter said, “Let’s move on. The nickname will probably be dropped once you are away from here. Tell me what you’ve learned and what comes next.”
Still irritated, Tim began. “For the last two months I’ve pulled every crap detail this place has.”
“Quit whining and tell me important things. Of course, you had all the bottom jobs. What did you expect … to be chief instructor or something? So, what have you learned, specifically, Jack, not a bunch of whimpering this time.”
Tim ignored the “Jack” and tried to be serious and informative.
“The big thing is I learned to shoot. Oh not like you do, but I could shoot Expert on any course I’ve heard of. I’m not too bad on movers, and I discovered that I was good at range estimation.” Tim sneered at his own comment. “I found out about range estimating just in time to also discover that everybody on every range now carries a monocular range finder.”
Tim went on. “I learned a thousand things that I can’t readily list. The main point would be that I can comfortably live with a gang of wild men and for the most part be one of them. I think that proves that I can fit in one of the military services without overly disgracing our town and county.”
The Making of Blackwater Jack Page 8