I also trained as a fugitive recovery agent. My reasoning was my belief that recovery agents are in far more homes than police officers or firefighters. While arresting those who’d skipped on their bonds, I could keep an eye out for indications of individuals who were being radicalized into homegrown violent extremists, as well as watch for signs of illicit manufacturing of homemade explosives, dangerous chemicals, or biological agents. Another reason I focused on fugitive recovery was that jails and prisons were a breeding and recruiting ground for violent Islamic radicals. I was increasing my and my colleagues’ capability to identify pre-attack indicators in hopes of disrupting the next tragedy.
The training paid off in at least one instance. Firefighters responded to a residence to assist a man who was having difficulty breathing. While firefighter EMTs treated the man in respiratory distress, the company officer walked back to the medicine cabinet to try to find out what medications the man might be taking, a standard fire service practice. When the officer walked into the bathroom, he immediately noticed that the bathtub was filled with a dozen one-gallon jugs that appeared to contain urine. This officer had recently taken one of our courses and was able to immediately connect the dots. He had learned from his training that urine can be used to make urea nitrate, a homemade high explosive used in terrorist weapons. After leaving the scene, the company officer notified law enforcement about what he’d witnessed. A warrant was eventually obtained and an arrest made. The man confessed that he was indeed attempting to make explosives.
There were so many ways that terrorists or any fanatic might try to inflict harm. It was sobering and almost overwhelming to prepare for every possibility, but I was determined to try. I was on a crusade.
In 2003, two months after Rhea and I returned from Uganda, I received an email that provided a new opportunity to make a difference. It was from Margaret Nelson, the nurse in charge of the medical training program during our Uganda trip. Would I be interested in returning to Africa to develop an emergency services system for the entire country? We would teach people how to respond to a variety of crises, whether it was an accident, a natural disaster, or a terrorist attack. Margaret knew my passion for fighting terrorism in addition to my love of teaching fire and rescue skills. We both understood that East Africa was home for all manner of dangerous extremists.
Margaret didn’t have to ask me twice. I saw an opportunity. I was soon on a plane back to Uganda.
Over the next four years, I flew often to Africa, usually for a month at a time, and immersed myself in creating a national rescue and emergency service response system for the people of Uganda. Most of my time was spent deep in remote jungles. We established a nongovernmental organization called Samaritan Emergency Volunteer Organization (SEVO), which was funded in part by a grant that my dad helped me write. I assisted in training more than ten thousand Ugandans in bush first aid through a curriculum I developed. We established ten medical and rescue training centers across the country. We also instituted five rescue stations equipped with an ambulance, twenty bicycle EMT units, and ten motorcycle EMT units along the nation’s deadliest highway. In addition, we set up rescue teams on the Ugandan border with South Sudan and the Congo to treat the hundreds of thousands of displaced people who were running from the terrorists known as the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA).
The work was not easy or always safe. On my first trip to Uganda, with Rhea, it hadn’t taken long to realize that life operated a little differently there. Just after we landed at Entebbe Airport, as our plane taxied toward the terminal, we passed by an older section of the airport. I noticed that the walls of the old tower were pockmarked with bullet holes. Later, I learned that these were from shots fired by Israeli Defense Forces commandos during their successful rescue of hostages held by terrorists in 1976.
Then, just after we’d landed, we stopped at a market so two members of our team could buy water and malaria medication. An agitated man walked up to our van and threatened us with a huge bowie knife. Everyone in the van was terrified. While David, our guide and driver, got out and talked to the man, I quietly slid open the van door, ready to respond if the situation turned violent. Fortunately, after David gave the man a small amount of money, the would-be attacker put his knife away and walked on.
I was relieved but also unnerved. My gosh, I thought, we’ve been on the ground only thirty minutes and we’ve already been threatened by a man wielding a knife. Is this how it’s going to be?
Sadly, intimidation and violence were a regular part of life for many in Uganda. For nearly two decades, the LRA had terrorized people in the northern region of the country. LRA tactics included mass atrocities and the kidnapping of children; some kids were forced to shoot their parents and then join the rebel army. Thousands of Ugandans fled their homes to escape the fighting between the LRA and government troops. According to one estimate, nearly two million people resided in temporary IDP (internally displaced persons) camps because of the conflict.
During one of my absences from Uganda, our organization established medical teams to serve the people in the camps. On my next trip to Africa, I was invited to view their work in person. An American embassy official recommended I stay out of the north—he showed me a picture of a missionary and his wife who had been murdered there. I knew that a Caucasian male could be an obvious target in that area, but I decided I needed to go. Though I saw plenty of evidence of the fight between the government and the LRA, including armed patrols, I fortunately avoided any incidents. Even so, it was unsettling to witness some of the traumas that our team was treating, such as machete and gunshot wounds. Evil forces were definitely at work here.
As bad as it was in the north, a sense of lawlessness could be found almost anywhere in Uganda. Motor vehicle accidents were frequent, since roads were terrible, there was no lighting, and people drove too fast. When an accident did occur, what Americans would consider normal emergency procedures and behavior did not apply. For many Ugandans, for example, a highway death was an opportunity to loot. Some might even steal a dead person’s shoes, because the deceased wouldn’t need them anymore.
Part of the early training I conducted with SEVO volunteers was on how to respond to a road accident. Since flares were unavailable, I taught the volunteers to build a fire to warn approaching motorists that there was an accident ahead and indicate they should slow down. One day what was called a taxi—actually a Volkswagen bus, filled with more than a dozen people—collided head-on with another vehicle on the pothole-marked highway. Some of the passengers were killed instantly, while others were badly injured.
Our team of SEVO volunteers responded to the injured and built fires at both ends of the road. Then a large commuter bus approached the scene at fifty miles per hour. The driver saw the warning fire but decided that the volunteers were trying to slow him down in order to rob him, another common trouble in Uganda. Instead of slowing, the driver accelerated and raced through the accident scene. He struck and killed eighteen people, including three SEVO members. It was a terrible reminder of the challenges we faced.
Because of the threats posed by LRA terrorists and even Ugandan citizens, security was another vital part of my work in the country. I performed security risk assessments of our rescue stations and made sure we had secure places to lock up vital medical equipment and supplies. I also helped build relationships with the national police in the towns where we established rescue stations so they would protect our SEVO responders when an incident occurred.
Most of Uganda’s problems were man-made, but natural ones could be just as dangerous. One night, during a party in the jungle to celebrate a wealthy man’s donation of land to SEVO, I decided to get away from the festivities for a few minutes and take a hike with a security specialist and a SEVO member. The three of us were walking down a trail surrounded by thick vegetation, me in front, when we heard a tree branch snap to our left. Each of us turned in that direction, our headlamps illuminating the area. On the ground between two trees,
about forty feet away, a pair of huge, yellow, catlike eyes stared in our direction.
“Don’t move,” said the SEVO man behind me. “That’s a leopard.”
I stopped breathing. Suddenly I wished I’d stayed at the party.
“Let’s walk slowly backwards,” the SEVO man said.
We did. Our headlamps stayed fixed on those unblinking yellow eyes, which watched our every step with laser-like intensity. When we felt we’d retreated far enough, caution was no longer needed—we turned and ran as fast as we could back to the camp. If the leopard gave chase, we were moving too quickly to notice.
* * *
TRAVELING TO AFRICA FOR MORE than two months a year was sometimes hard on my family. It was especially tough on Rhea. When I returned home from a Uganda trip, I usually spent a couple of days with my wife before going back to work at the firehouse. We needed time to reconnect and share what was going on in our lives.
During those first days at home, I often found myself up late at the computer in my office, looking up antiterrorism employment opportunities across the country. I knew I was doing good work at home and in Uganda, but I needed to do more to protect my country and prevent terrorism. My goal was to serve a metropolitan city that was a likely terrorist target and be responsible for protecting a large population of American citizens. One night, as I scrolled through various job openings, my heart skipped a beat—the city of San Diego was seeking someone qualified to fill the roles of both a homeland security manager and an emergency manager.
San Diego was home. This was perfect. I applied immediately.
It took months of deliberations, background checks, a polygraph test, and multiple interviews, but I was eventually blessed to be offered the position. Rhea was originally from California, so she was all for the move. I woke up every morning having to pinch myself that the Lord had given me such a huge opportunity and responsibility.
The new job meant having to put an end to my work in Uganda, however. I knew I would leave SEVO in capable hands—Hannington Sserugga was one of the six men who had attended my initial first aid class and was dedicated to helping his people. When we formed SEVO, he served as director in my absence. The other board members were also dedicated. For me, seeing what we’d accomplished was like looking at a plowed, furrowed field. The seeds had been planted and watered. The soil had been tended and weeded. Now we were watching the sprouts begin to come up. My work here was done. Hannington and the rest of the team would grow the program to new heights and make it truly Ugandan.
Even so, it was hard to say goodbye. My last trip to Uganda was in July 2007. After I’d officially turned over my responsibilities and equipment and signed the necessary documents, fifty or so people accompanied me to Entebbe Airport. We gathered in the airport parking lot. As always, the Ugandans called me “grandfather,” a sign of respect. I received many hugs and witnessed many tears.
“Uganda will always remember what you have done for her and us,” Hannington said. “Many lives have been saved in many ways. You brought something to Uganda that we never would have had otherwise. We will never forget you.”
The strange thing is that despite the heartfelt words, I would not allow myself to step back mentally and take any credit for my four years of efforts in Africa. I felt little satisfaction. Even as my colleagues and friends gathered around to thank me and wish me well, only half of me was with them. The other half was already thinking about my new position in San Diego and what I needed to do.
Despite my growing influence and impact in the realm of antiterrorism, I was not at peace. On my way to visit the IDP camps in northern Uganda, I’d ridden in the back of a flatbed truck for eight hours. I should have been mentally preparing for what I would do if we were unexpectedly attacked or been rehearsing how I might encourage our SEVO volunteers at the camps. Instead, all I could think about was my kids. My dad had missed so many events that were important to me as I grew up. Because of my travels, I’d also missed too many of Casey, Ben, and Ciara’s plays, baseball games, and school open houses. I pictured each of them as an adult, standing and smiling in a roomful of people, but on the inside feeling alone and in pain because their father never gave enough, leaving them feeling unloved.
Nobody told me I was failing, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was letting everyone down: my kids, my wife, my dad, and God. No matter what I did, I heard the same message over and over in my mind: You will never be a good dad. I saw only one way to overcome this and earn the respect and love of my family and the people around me. I needed to take my efforts to the next level. I needed to do more.
16
* * *
I THINK I’M DYING
We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival.
—WINSTON CHURCHILL
4:08 P.M., TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 22
KENAI PENINSULA
“WHOA, BEAR! WHOA, BEAR!”
Matt yelled at the grizzly at the top of his lungs. The bear reeled in my brother’s direction, my leg still dangling from her jaws, to size up this new threat. I still had no vision, but I could hear and feel Matt and the grizzly’s steps as the three of us twirled in a bizarre dance of death.
The beast was directly between us. The trees were too thick along both sides of the narrow trail for Matt to change position and take a clean shot with his rifle. If he fired from where he was, the Nosler slug would surely travel through the bear and hit me. So, to distract her, Matt repeatedly charged toward the grizzly and yelled, then quickly backpedaled.
With each advance, Matt moved a little closer to the bear. He definitely had her attention, but she wasn’t moving and she wasn’t letting go of me.
Finally, Matt ran even closer, within twenty-five feet. The giant sow lowered her head and locked black pupils on Matt’s. It was like staring into the eyes of the devil. My brother hesitated only an instant, then took one more step.
That did it. The grizzly released my leg. She dropped her head further and emitted a deep, guttural growl. The bear curled her lower lip. The hair on her back stood up. When she bared her fangs, blood—my blood—dripped to the ground.
I was in helpless agony. There was nothing I could do.
Matt stepped quickly to his left, trying to put me out of the line of fire.
The grizzly charged.
Matt raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired. Flames leapt from the end of the barrel, briefly obscuring his view. The bullet caught the rampaging monster in the left shoulder. She kept coming.
Matt cycled the rifle bolt back, ejecting the spent cartridge. He slammed the bolt forward, chambering another round.
At the same instant, the bear braced her front legs, slid to a stop ten feet from Matt, and reared onto her hind legs. She towered two feet above my brother, roared, and stepped closer. Suddenly she lunged, jaws open. She was going for Matt’s head.
My brother fired again.
The second bullet struck the behemoth in the upper part of her neck. Either Matt had hit a sensitive area or the combined effect of the wounds had registered. Either way, the grizzly suddenly dropped onto all fours, turned to Matt’s left, and bolted off the trail into thick vegetation, snapping trees like matchsticks as it ran.
Matt stood in place, his body shaking, shocked by what had just happened. I was on my hands and knees, blood pouring from my wounds. The grizzly was not gone. Matt couldn’t see the bear, but we heard her growling and pacing about thirty yards away. Had she had enough or was she gathering strength for another attack?
Matt watched the trees in the direction of the growls, his rifle raised. A minute passed. Two minutes. Matt finally rushed over, knelt beside me, and placed his hand on my back. “Greg, we’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “That bear’s still alive and I’m not convinced she’s not coming back.”
I couldn’t see, but I could hear my blood dripping into pools below me from the lacerations on my neck, head, and face. Blood and saliva also poured from
my mouth where the grizzly had driven a fang through my left cheek and jaw. With my tongue, I felt the dime-sized hole. I didn’t believe any of this. There’s no way I was just attacked by a grizzly.
“Greg,” Matt said again, “we’ve got to get you out of here!”
I was so exhausted. Waves of nausea and shock washed over me. My head spun. I avoided turning toward Matt, because I just knew he would tell me my face was gone. My face and mouth had suffered so much trauma that I could barely speak.
“Matt,” I rasped, “I think I’m dying.”
“No, you are not dying!” Matt snapped. “Tell me what to do, Greg. Tell me what to do.”
Matt’s words echoed in my brain as if he were speaking from the other end of a long tunnel. I shook my head to try to clear the confusion. Think, Greg, think. Nothing was making sense.
Then a remnant of my EMT training kicked in. I’ve lost a lot of blood. I’m going into shock. We’ve got to control the bleeding—now.
“I can’t see anything,” I said. “You need to be my eyes and hands. I’m going to rise up on my knees. You get in front of me and tell me what you see.”
I drew in a long breath, spit out a chunk of coagulated blood, and slowly straightened up. The drop in blood pressure brought on a fresh wave of nausea.
“Your cheek has been torn away from your upper lip,” Matt said. “You have a deep, two-inch laceration that extends down the center of your forehead. You have—”
“What about my face? Did it get my eyes?”
“There’s a lot of blood but it looks like your eyes are fine,” Matt said. “Your face, it’s serious, but I’m sure it’s repairable.” He paused a moment. “Though I will say it looks like I’m moving to the top of the list as most handsome sibling.”
I tried to laugh. At least Matt still had a sense of humor.
“I’m most worried about the bite to my neck,” I said. I slowly raised my chin.
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