Mercenary Mum: My Journey from Young Mother to Baghdad Bodyguard (9 page)

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 dark 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.

I was told that the plan for that day was for some of the team to conduct security picquets at the clients’ workplace, the Convention Center. Meanwhile, a member of the team, Money Shot, would show me around the Green Zone and organise my identification passes.

Before we left, I ducked to the loo. The downstairs toilet was a lot grubbier than the one on my floor, I noted. The toilet seat was also missing, and from Ghost’s response when I asked him about it later, it was clear no replacement was due in the near future. Believe it or not, the guys in the team actually complained about the lack of a toilet seat more than I did. God knows how they would have handled things if they’d had to sit down every time they went.

Ghost had warned me that the local sewerage system was crap (yes, a pun), and that the plumbing just couldn’t cope with soggy clumps of toilet paper. Everyone had to discard the used paper in a nearby bucket, rather than in the actual toilet system. The cleaners were charged with the wonderful job of disposing of the bucket’s contents every day. I felt for them.

The waste didn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, travel through the underground pipes to get to the sewers. So, every third day, a ‘poo truck’ would turn up at the house to siphon out all the sewerage. You could always smell the truck coming before you saw it, I was told. Ghost had laughed as he said that the stench of faecal matter would soon become a part of daily life, along with the acrid tang of diesel fumes from the running generators.

After I flushed the toilet, I watched in horror as the water began to rise until it was almost level with the bowl. There it remained for about thirty seconds, before finally receding back down the pipes. I let out a sigh of relief. It appeared that the sewerage system was close to capacity.
It must be poo truck day
, I thought.

I washed my hands in the sink, only to discover that the pipes did not reach all the way to the ground. Water splashed over my boots and onto the floor, before slowly dribbling down the drain.
What a mess!
While I was looking around for a mop, Ghost came over and began to chuckle: “Oh, yeah, don’t use that sink. It needs fixing.”

*

Money Shot, a tall, lanky man in his late thirties, stalked out of the team office, ready to take me on my excursion. I asked him what type of equipment we needed, and my tour guide replied that we’d be fine with only our pistols. There were so many military and civilian security personnel in the Green Zone that high-powered rifles weren’t required. Pistols tucked in under our shirts, we jumped into one of the team cars and headed off.

Money Shot drove us to the infamous Victory Arch: two sets of huge bronze hands holding crossed swords. This was where Saddam had held ceremonial parades with his army. We idled near the entrance, and I could see helmets cemented into the plinths on which the bronze hands rested. The helmets – 2500-odd on each of the four plinths, so Money Shot said – had belonged to fallen Iranian soldiers killed in the First Persian Gulf War.

The parade ground was so wide and so long that the team regularly used it as somewhere to practise their formation driving, blocking drills, handbrake turns and reverse 180-degree turns. It was the best and probably the only place you could practise high-speed driving in the Green Zone, but I was new to the country and extremely suspicious: it would be the perfect place to sit and gather intelligence.

If I was hired to assassinate someone, the first thing I would do is study their security team. Training in an open and public area, such as the Victory Arch, would make the job easy. Having observed the team’s training and reaction to attack drills, I’d be able to come up with a counter plan. I didn’t know what the chances were of an insurgent actually breaching the Green Zone’s perimeter. Less than a month before I’d arrived, the marketplace had been blown up – killing one person and injuring five others – so it was not impossible.

We drove past the military hospital and the US Embassy – housed in one of Saddam’s old palaces – on our way to the gym and PX store. This was the hub of Green Zone life. We walked into the gymnasium and my jaw dropped. There were treadmills, cross trainers, weights and stretching rooms. Large gleaming mirrors lined the walls and there were refrigerators stocked with bottled water for patrons. There were clean, fresh sweat towels everywhere and a sound system pumped electronic music. The gym was as good as any back home. The only ID I’d need to get into the gym was a passport or a US Department of Defense (DOD) card. Here was somewhere I could run: it would be a great stress reliever.

The PX store was small, but had all the essential items: toiletries, magazines, washing powder, combat equipment and clothing. It also sold sweets and chocolates, but if you didn’t make it to the store on the day they were put on the shelf, you missed out. Talk about the quick and the hungry.

The next and most important part of the tour was the Baghdad Convention Center and the Al Rasheed Hotel, which were located on opposite sides of the same street. We had to pass through numerous security checkpoints before being allowed to enter the hotel car park. From there, we walked to the Convention Center.

The Convention Center was where our clients worked but in order for me to access it, I’d need an identification (ID) pass. I quickly learnt that life as a security contractor was all about ID passes: the more you had, the higher your status. The power of the ID pass was immense: it dictated your ability to do your job, provided greater access to the military services that made life easier, and could even determine your employability.

A DOD card was the golden ticket. It allowed you tasty American military meals, you could use their top-of-the-line gym and recreation facilities and, most importantly, it ensured priority access through security checkpoints. No DOD pass meant you had to line up at checkpoints with the plebs, which left you at greater risk of being blown up or shot at by insurgent forces.

I didn’t have a DOD card, but the rest of the team did. They had stopped issuing those cards to our team once they realised that our contract did not fall under the auspices of the Department of Defense. The guys still retained their cards, but I would have to make do with my passport. The ID card I was after now was the Convention Center (CC) card, which would allow me free access to both the Convention Center and the Al Rasheed Hotel.

Although it was easy enough to get the CC card, it was more difficult to secure its ‘extra benefits’. These privileges included being able to escort visitors into the complex and being permitted to drive a vehicle right up to the entrance of the building. The ability to drive a client right up to the front of the building made for a far more secure drop-off and ensured the team looked very professional. Without this access, we’d have to park in the general car park, and schlep our clients the 300 metres to their workplace.

Money Shot led the way to the badging office. There, he spoke to an imposing six-foot-four American army officer who was not keen on giving away ‘special access’ too easily. Money Shot used all his charm and wit to persuade the officer to change his mind. Eventually, Captain America relented, and I was given my CC card with full privileges.

I placed my card into my ID cardholder. In the Green Zone, you had to have your identification on display at all time. Without it, you risked being arrested by the military police and detained until you could prove who you were – not a fun way to spend an afternoon. I hung my ID cardholder around my neck like a medal and followed Money Shot to the hotel.

It was way past lunchtime and I was starving. After passing through yet more security checkpoints and unloading our pistols, at last we made it into the Al Rasheed Hotel. It housed mostly UN personnel who were all working towards the same thing as our clients: a safe and fair election. I was told they were only occupying certain floors of that building. The higher the floor, the greater the chance it had of being severely damaged in a mortar attack.

We weren’t there to talk to the UN personnel. The Al Rasheed Hotel had a military food hall, and our CC cards gave us access to it. I could not believe what I saw when I entered the hall. There were tables laden with breakfast cereals, fruits and snack bars. The fridges were filled with soft drinks, flavoured milk, juices and bottles of water. There was a sandwich bar, a salad bar and a fast-food bar. I didn’t know where to go first. Australian mess facilities just didn’t compare to this. I could see myself enjoying work if lunch was like this every day.