The Bremer Detail (2 page)

In 2003, when I received my phone call, Blackwater was in its infancy. The idea of using private security contractors to protect American officials was nascent. I believe Erik Prince, founder of Blackwater, should be applauded for his willingness to step up and take the monumental risk of supporting the U.S. military and diplomatic efforts in Iraq and Afghanistan. At the time he accepted this first-of-its-kind contract to protect the highest-ranking U.S. official in a war zone, the rewards and risks were crystal clear:
Succeed in keeping Ambassador Bremer alive, and your company will have accomplished something no private company has ever achieved before. However, if Bremer gets killed, your company will serve as a poster child for those who believe a private company cannot possibly provide the level of protection required to safeguard government officials. Oh, and by the way, your company will, in all likelihood, never receive another government contract.

But again, let me back up. This is my story and the story of how a group of dedicated protection professionals managed to do something that they themselves never thought possible.

21 July 2003

As I hung up and reached for my coffee, I heard Kim turn off the vacuum. She walked into the kitchen and asked who called. Deep breath: I told her it was Blackwater asking me if I wanted to work, and that I would be leaving for Iraq in three weeks. She clamped her teeth and did not say a word, obviously not overjoyed with the idea. Neither were my daughters (one in high school, one in college) when I told them. I explained it was only for thirty days, so it would be easy. I really believed this when I said it.

For the majority of my executive protection career I have kept well-known, recognizable figures safe. I have always had an excellent sense of the who, the where, and the when of potential problems. I’ve worked in forty-two different countries but never in a war zone environment. And I always came back safe. Africa, the Middle East, Europe, Asia—most spots were civilized, no spot had thousands of folks trying to kill my protectee. I expected Iraq to be similar. Boy, was I naïve as hell!

At age forty-four I was not in the same shape I was back when I was a Recon Marine. From talking to some of my friends, I knew Blackwater’s physical fitness test would include a 1.5 mile run and some pull-ups. The pull-ups would be easy. The run? Yeah, not so much. I knew, too, I would have to get to the shooting range and put some holes in some targets to make sure I did not embarrass myself. So I made the decision to increase the tempo of my workouts and actually start running. I hate running.

In 2003 Blackwater, virtually unknown to the public, had a mystique of excellence and elitism among security specialists; and a reputation for hiring only the “best of the best.” I was honored­ and nervous. I knew my friend Brutus had put my name in for consideration, and the last thing I wanted to do was make him look bad. In our world, if you recommend someone and he doesn’t work out, you run the risk of getting fired for making a bad recommendation. Brutus was a great friend and a brother Recon Marine, and I certainly didn’t want to sully his reputation. We had worked together for Dr. Kissinger for five years, and I knew Brutus thought I could do it or he would not have risked the recommendation. He had never bullshitted me.

I called Brutus and gave him the news. He had been working in Iraq for Blackwater for several months on a different project, and he cautioned me that the selection process was no joke. He gave me the limited insight he had about the upcoming project. We talked about the heat and the operations that were going on over there in the “sandbox.” Iraq at this time was not going through the troubles that would soon begin. Coalition forces had been there for four months. The Iraqis still weren’t quite sure what to expect as we attempted to convert the country from Saddam Hussein’s dictatorship to a functioning democracy. The coalition was extremely hopeful the transition would be relatively painless. Insurgent attacks were not yet an everyday occurrence. This would soon change.

For the time being Americans seemed to be regarded as semiheroes for ousting Saddam, and there was general goodwill toward us. Brutus wished me good luck and gave me a list of things he thought would make my life somewhat easier. There were many things that could be purchased in Baghdad, but the main items that were always in short supply included: soap, deodorant, shoelaces, extra sunglasses, watch batteries, and Febreze. The Febreze was a key and essential part of the equipment load as the heat and all too frequent water outages could cause a man and his equipment to smell worse than the local dump. I couldn’t admit it to him because of bro-rules, but I was nervous as hell. We laughed and I told him I would see him soon. At least, I hoped I would.

Trying out for anything has always been disconcerting to me. I knew from word of mouth that Blackwater was mainly staffed by former SEALs who had extensive special operations experience. Most had considerable time with DEVGRU (SEAL Team 6). I was a former Recon Marine, had been out for almost twenty years, and had been doing executive protection for most of that time—meaning suits and ties and flying around on private jets. No body armor, no rifles. I knew Brutus had navigated through the Blackwater on-boarding process so I felt confident that, despite the sometimes intense interservice rivalry between the Recon guys and the SEALs, the SEAL team guys would give me a fair chance. I also knew they had called me because of my previous relationship with Ambassador Bremer. Blackwater was relatively new to the executive protection game, so I had that going for me.

Later that same afternoon I went to the gun store and bought a couple hundred rounds of ammo, then went to the range. The shooting went well, but I was fully aware of the fact that the guys who would be evaluating me were going to be shit hot shooters. I made a mental note that I would need at least a few more range sessions before I felt comfortable with my skill level. My accuracy was good, but my speed was not. Muscle memory would need to be reinvigorated. One thing to note about guys like us—former military, former cops, or as we say to each other “former action guys” (FAGs for short)—is we know and readily acknowledge where our weaknesses lie, and we actually try to get them up to par before a tryout. Yes, we work at it. Yes, we practice. Shooting is a perishable skill. If you don’t practice, you don’t shoot well. I didn’t have access to an M-4 rifle so I was going to have to fire the thing cold and hope my hand-eye coordination would translate from handguns and my muscle memory for a carbine would come back quickly.

After addressing the weapons part of the tryout equation, I turned my attention to the run. One and a half miles in twelve minutes. Back in the day most of us could probably walk this fast, but this was not back in the day. Onslow Beach, the home of 2d Recon Battalion, was a distant memory. Even there, running had been a challenge for me. The USMC physical fitness test has a three-mile run, and to get maximum points the course had to be covered in eighteen minutes or less. My best time ever had been 19:10, and that had been at the end of Amphibious Reconnaissance School (ARS) when I was in my all-time peak condition. ARS was the school that Marines had to complete to get the military occupation specialty of 0321—Reconnaissance Man. I was lucky enough to go through the very first ARS course. It combined the most challenging physical aspects of U.S. Army Ranger School with the SEALs’ Basic Underwater Demolition School (BUDS). Even after ARS, I could not max the run.

So I took my car out and mapped a 1.5-mile course around my neighborhood. I figured within ten days I should certainly regain some semblance of running shape. Next it was off to the running store to get a pair of shoes that would be up to the task. Apparently running shoes had evolved into highly specialized designs tailored to weight, stride length, and so on. At my weight, about 210, I was considered a Clydesdale not a thoroughbred and was thus directed toward a small rear corner of the store where a running shoe guru shepherded me through my purchase. And, of course, I bought some decent socks. A man has got to have decent socks.

I went home, put on my new shoes, and headed out the door. Apparently at age forty-four you really should stretch a bit before running for the first time in ten years. But, in my mind, tigers don’t stretch; we just run out and kill things. I made it almost a hundred yards before I felt an intense pain shooting up my left leg. I (barely) hobbled back to the house, fully convinced I had torn my Achilles tendon. I made it to the kitchen and immediately started icing the injured area. It hurt like hell! This was not good.

Kim got home from the beach, saw the ice pack on my leg and the bottle of Motrin on the table, and casually asked what I had done. She was somewhat used to the periodic injuries her husband got because he refused to admit he was not twenty-one anymore. Trying to be stoic, I asked her if she would drive me to the orthopedic surgeon so I could figure out exactly how badly I was hurt. She picked up her keys and off we went. I was in extreme pain but was trying to be flippant. If she had not been there, I almost certainly would not have been able to drive myself. As we drove, a hundred scenarios played out in my mind. Complete tear. Rupture. Blackwater. Iraq. Let Brutus down. What was I going to do? How could this have happen? WTF?

The doctor examined it, took some x-rays, said I had only sprained, not torn, my Achilles.

Good. I asked about recovery time and chances for reinjuring it. He said this type of sprain usually took about two months to heal. TWO MONTHS????! I had nine days before the running and shooting events were to take place. He said to rest it, ice it, stay off it, and if I wanted, I could see a physical therapist. After I explained my upcoming deployment and schedule, he gave me some heavy-duty anti-inflammatories, made some calls, and got me into a physical therapist later that afternoon. I was beside myself with doubts.

The physical therapist started immediately with electrical stimulation and massage. He repeated the “rest, ice, elevation, and stay off it” advice. Yeah, like there was any chance this was going to happen! Instead of running I decided the next best thing was to try walking as far and as fast as I could. Kim was supportive and came with me. She only called me a pussy a few times. It was all I could do not to think about the position I found myself in. My ankle and leg hurt like hell.

I continued the meds and PT every day and started to feel a little better, but the specter of the run was hanging over my head like the grim reaper. And more than a few people thought the injury was a good thing as it would likely keep me from going through with the deployment. These folks clearly did not know me as well as they thought they did. My sole driver was my intention to go, to try out and do the absolute best I was capable of doing. Failure was not an option. Still, I must confess to a nagging worry that I would struggle, that I would not be able to force my way through the pain.

Blackwater called and set up my travel plans. I didn’t mention the injury. We talked about the pay and the length of the contract. They wanted me to go for thirty days and were going to pay me $600 a day. I quickly did the math, thought 18K was a ton of money, and honestly figured it would be a cakewalk. Study long, study wrong.

Blackwater’s original contract to keep Ambassador Bremer safe was to supply two men to supplement a protection team supplied by the U.S. Army’s Criminal Investigative Division. I found this odd: two civilian contractors working alongside, for, and with regular U.S. Army personnel. But who was I to question anything? I would go and do the best I could and be home in a month. The whole thing was simply overwhelming. These were the days long before the contracting craze hit the sandbox. Blackwater had two guys with the ambassador and another thirty (The Dirty 30) working on another project. They had a total of thirty-two elite guys there, truly a far cry from the eventual thousands of contractors who would be working there a few years later. (By early 2005 Blackwater alone had approximately one thousand contractors in Iraq.)

Moyock, NC

The day arrived for me to head down to Moyock, North Carolina, for the big events—two days of nerve-wracking man tests. As luck would have it, somehow, in my state of confusion over the injury and the rehab, I screwed up the date. I thought I was flying on Monday. The plane ticket they sent was for Sunday. Imagine my horror when the phone rang Monday morning and Susan M. asked me if I had changed my mind about coming down. I had no idea what she was talking about. I quickly packed my bags, jumped in my car, and began the ten-hour drive to Moyock. The entire drive now consisted of me kicking myself in the ass for (a) not reading the itinerary that had been sent; (b) my injury; and (c) the great first impression I must have been making by proving reading comprehension was apparently not a strong part of my intellectual repertoire. I was beside myself. Ten hours is a long time to question and punish one’s self.

I got there after dark. Following the instructions I had been given, I punched in the access control numbers to the main entrance gate and headed to the bunkhouse to try to get some sleep … like that was even remotely possible. The bunkhouse was half filled with folks there for different training courses. Like all men, we grunted acknowledgments but never exchanged any conversation. My room consisted of two bunk beds and a desk. Fortunately I was the only one in the room. I set my alarm for 0600 and tried to sleep. Brutus called from the sandbox, and I explained my fuckup to him and he laughed and reminded me that stuff like this happens with the SEALs all the time and not to sweat it. Easier said than done.

The next morning I went to the chow hall and had a couple of cups of coffee while I was trying to figure out who was who and where I should I go. August in NC is the closest thing to Africa-hot I have ever experienced. The flashbacks to Camp Lejeune and Onslow Beach were surreal. It was 90 degrees and 90 percent humidity. It was HOT. Truly uncomfortable.

I finally met up with Brian B and Susan M and they explained the day’s events. I would head to the range with Steve Babs (former SEAL and weapons instructor) and shoot the Glock pistol that I was to be issued in Iraq, and an M-4 rifle. Did I say it was hot? I was already sweating through my clothes. Steve Babs and I went to the armory and grabbed a couple of pistols and rifles and several thousand rounds of ammo. Several thousand! I thought at first he was trying to intimidate me. Who shoots this much ammo in one day? Blackwater, that’s who.

Babs was around thirty and in great shape. I was forty-four and in not-so-great shape. I put on the body armor (thirty pounds or so), the Glock pistol and spare magazines, and six magazines of M-4 ammunition. We went through a series of pistol fundamentals and then began shooting. And we shot, and we shot, and we shot, and we shot. From the holster. From a knee. From a prone position. From behind barricades. Did I say it was hot? I was drenched in sweat. Steve had a lot of water, and I drank as much as I could. Fainting would not have been a good thing. We then started moving and shooting. And running and shooting. My hands were sore from loading magazines. Then we shot moving targets. Then we shot more targets. And so it went until lunchtime.

After lunch, we picked up with the M-4. First the fundamentals and the basics. Once again, with about forty pounds of gear attached to my frame, we began shooting. From the standing position, from a knee, from a prone position. Behind barricades. Did I mention the heat? By now it was 100 degrees and we were in the sun. I was not sure if I’d make it through the afternoon. Finally around 1630 hours Babs called it a day. I must have done okay as he said he would see me tomorrow at the armory at 0800. I crawled back to the bunkhouse. My leg was on fire. My ass was chapped from the sweat that had dripped down my ass crack all day. My whole body was drained. My hands were bleeding from the thousands of rounds we had loaded. Brutus had been correct: Blackwater did not fuck around when it came to training.

The next morning the training continued. We moved on to rifle and pistol drills. We shot, and we shot, and we shot. Around 1000 hours Brian B came over and asked me to come to the office and talk with B-Town, who had been one of the first two guys on The Bremer Detail in Iraq. B-Town was a retired SEAL who had served over twenty years in the Teams. He explained how the detail was being run, and what I could expect. At first I thought he was kidding, but I quickly realized this was going to be way more real, and far more dangerous, than my experiences doing protection stateside. B-Town explained the group dynamics. We would
not
be working with Special Forces–caliber folks as I had hoped. The majority of the current detail was made up of reservists who had been called to active duty, and B-Town said they were not pleased to be working with contractors.
Great,
I thought. B-Town talked about the motorcade convoys and the advances, and the living conditions and the heat. It really was a great brief and I will be eternally grateful for his honesty.

Back to the range where Steve Babs continued to torture me with more and more complex shooting drills. My fingers were raw and bleeding from the nonstop reloading, but I said nothing and kept going. Finally, lunchtime came. I drank as much Gatorade as I could and crawled back to the bunkhouse to ice my leg. The damn run was scheduled for the next morning and, quite honestly, the shooting was sapping my energy levels.

Again back to the range. We shot for about an hour when Steve called a time-out. As we were walking toward the targets to examine them Babs pointed at a dragonfly buzzing around about seven yards in front of us. He laughed and said watch this. He drew his pistol and shot the dragonfly while it was in the air moving away from us and to the left—a truly awesome display of pistol marksmanship. The guy could shoot.

We talked about what we had done over the last few days, and he said he was satisfied and I was “good to go.” We went to see Brian B and Babs gave me the thumbs-up. I was ecstatic. It was the most intense shooting session I had ever been through. Now only the run lurked in the back of my mind.

Brian B talked about the deployment dates. I read and signed the contract. We talked about life insurance, what would happen if we got involved in a shooting, and so on. I gave them my passport so they could get me a visa for Kuwait. Kuwait was the mustering site for folks heading to Iraq. They gave me a departure date and we shook hands. I walked out of the office with Babs and he took me to the spot where they issued gear. I got some shirts, trousers. He asked if I had any other questions and I said no. We shook hands and he wished me luck. He said it was over and to have a good trip home. I hesitated for a second and then asked about the physical fitness test. He said not to worry about it as the range had tested all he had needed to see. He said again I was “good to go.” I thanked the sweet little baby Jesus in my own way. I grabbed my new “cool guy” gear and went back to the bunkhouse to pack my shit and escape before anybody could change their minds. I did not relax until I hit Delaware.

The drive home was, to say the least, interesting. The Northeast power grid had failed and a massive outage blacked out New York and the New England states. Traffic lights were out; toll booths and gas stations were closed. As I cruised through Delaware I heard radio reports of what was coming, so I gassed up and plotted how I could best get to Connecticut. I crossed into New Jersey. The drive became treacherous. About forty miles into the Garden State I began a laborious trek on nontoll roads. They too were jammed. Tempers were flaring. Drivers dove into small gaps in traffic like WW II kamikaze pilots attacking carriers. Finally the radio reported all the tolls on the Garden State Parkway had been opened to let traffic flow. I maneuvered back to the highway and had clear sailing to the Tappan Zee Bridge. The trip took six hours longer than it should have, but I was happy to be back in Connecticut. I thought,
If I don’t get killed driving home, Iraq will be a cakewalk.

I arrived home at about 0400. We had no power. I told Kim by candlelight that I had passed and would be leaving in two weeks. I told the girls the next morning. I hoped in a weird way they were happy for me, but I could sense concern on their faces. They were used to my disappearances, but it was usually to Paris or London or Australia or South America, not to a war zone. And definitely not to Iraq. Friends, too, questioned my sanity. The only thing I could say was that I had signed up to go, I would honor my commitment, and I would be home in a month. I was excited!