The Bremer Detail (22 page)

The guy who would become the Blackwater “detail leader” for the new team made a few runs with us, but he spent more time doing an inventory of what we had. Quite honestly, he would have been better off running with the advance team and learning the job so he could actually supervise what was going on, and not being quite so worried about how many Band-Aids and Blackwater T-shirts we had. He spent days counting things over and over again. Some of my guys who were going to stay decided against it after watching him concentrate on things that were not mission specific. The team was looking at him to be a buffer between them and the State Department. They were hoping that he would be able to cogently explain and defend why we did things a certain way. Instead, he announced (triumphantly) that he had completed the inventory and everything seemed to be in order.

It got worse. Murph came to me and asked if I could stay on for another month to help with the transition. I told him that only Blackwater could make that decision. He said he was going to send them an e-mail and make the request. He copied me on the e-mail to Blackwater HQ. I was exhausted and I hoped that Blackwater would refuse it as my conscience would never have allowed me to leave any of my guys in the lurch, but I really needed some downtime. Blackwater responded that they had full faith in the new guy they had sent over. Murph was not happy. He was in a tough spot, but there was nothing that I could do to help him. The new guy was not winning hearts and minds—not a great beginning for the joint DS/Blackwater team. Fortunately, that would not be my problem.

My problems were centered on continuing to get the ambassador and my team out alive. We had suffered zero casualties and still had not fired a single shot while protecting the boss. We had not killed a single man, woman, or child. I did not want that to change.

Shootings by other PSD teams were making the news every day by now, and all were attributed to the big dog on the block—Blackwater. It was truly annoying; and it affected the new guys who were coming in to replace my guys. Anxiety etched their faces. They knew the learning curve ahead would be steep.

The intel guys continued beating down my energy reserves with their updates. The messages were always the same—
You all are in extreme danger
. I knew it, the team knew it, and the ambassador knew it. We just had to stay focused and take each mission as it came. If we made no mistakes, did our jobs, worked as a team, and stayed on point, we would be okay. It was my job to make sure that happened every day.

Fortunately, with the huge influx of people, the pool parties continued unabated. The State Department folks now had a DJ every night playing music, had karaoke nights, and even sold beer. The women continued to hunt the Blackwater guys with a passion, so the guys did have a few distractions to keep the stress levels down. One day at the chow hall I sat down opposite a lady in her mid-thirties. There had been a mortar attack earlier that evening and she was visibly stressed.

“Brenda, why don’t you get out of here and go home to your husband and three kids?”

She reached across the table with her left hand, placed it over my right hand, and smiled at me. “Frank, I’m having sex with more men than I ever thought possible. I may never leave.”

“Well, aah, all right then,” was all I could mutter. At least she was honest.

We had a couple of boxes of Blackwater T-shirts that were all smalls and mediums. They were a highly prized item, sought after by most everyone in the palace. The guys started handing them out to women they slept with. I’m not sure if the ladies ever figured out why we thought it was so funny when they proudly wore their new shirts to the chow hall. Of course we always wanted to know with whom a woman had earned her shirt.

Brain Mac came to me and said there was a chance we would be departing a little sooner than 30 June. I told him to keep me posted. Everyone from the top down was very concerned about keeping the ambassador alive. The 30 June date was also well known to the bad guys and had become a huge target for them. If they could kill him on that day, it would be a major score. And, inversely, a really bad day for us.

The rocket and mortar attacks against the Green Zone increased in frequency as we got closer to the end. The bad guys were getting more brazen, and hostility oozed from the locals every time we went out with the ambassador. The guys were on edge. Car bombs, suicide bombers, every type of potential attack had been warned against. Each trip seemed to last an eternity. Every time we got back to the Green Zone there was a great sense of relief. We never knew when, or if, today would be our last day; but that was never the point. The point always was the mission. One didn’t do this job if he had a strong sense of self-preservation. You couldn’t afford that. It has been said that guys who do this type of work don’t usually come from happy homes. Maybe. But maybe that’s what gives them the mental edge. Like the old samurai warriors, we live each day to the fullest knowing it could be our last day. Yesterday is gone, a fleeting memory. Tomorrow may not come. But today—today is the most important day of our lives. Today is all that counts. Look ahead to tomorrow and you could lose focus on today. Then there will be no tomorrow. When doing a dangerous job like this PSD gig, our teammates become our family. We rely heavily on them and the camaraderie comes to take on added significance. We are there for each other with a single common goal. The people back home have no idea what we are doing or how we are doing it. They don’t understand. All they know is that we are not there. On the ground, with our brothers in arms, everything is real. It is as real as it can possibly get. We keep each other grounded and focused.

A line from the Clint Eastwood western movie
The Outlaw Josey Wales
became sort of a mantra,
“Whooped ’em again, Josey!”

They never got Clint Eastwood and they still had not gotten us.

Behind the scenes, and known to only a handful of people, the date of 28 June was tentatively selected as the day for the transfer of power to take place. After seventeen months of U.S. rule, Iraq would once again be ruled by an Iraqi, as power passed from Bremer to Allawi. The insurgents did not like Allawi at all. Plans were being made to get the ambassador out as safely as possible, and leaving two days ahead of the publicly announced date was an excellent idea. The bad guys were gearing up for a final run at the ambassador, and we would throw them a curveball. Unfortunately for us, on 27 June a C-130 departing Baghdad airport came under heavy small-arms fire. An AK-47 round managed to pass through a window and strike a DOD civilian employee in the head. He died almost instantly.

The ambassador had always flown out on a C-130. Now the bad guys were shooting at them, perhaps practicing for the ambassador’s plane. It was not great news for him, or us. The ambassador, as always, took the news stoically.

My focus now centered on the hours between the transfer of power to the Iraqis and when we got the ambassador to the airport and off the ground. That would be more than enough time for the bad guys to set up positions to fire antiaircraft missiles, RPGs, or small-arms fire at any and all departing C-130s. FUCK.

No one on the team, and only a handful of people on the ambassador’s staff, knew we were leaving early. There had been a lot of travel arrangements made for his staff and my team to get seating aboard a C-17 that would fly us to Germany and then on to the United States. Parties were being planned for arrival in the United States on 1 July.

Late on the night of 27 June, Brian Mac called me and said to pack my bags and be ready to go in the morning. The decision was not set in stone, so I told no one. I packed up and tried to keep the fact quiet from everyone. I did not even tell any of my guys. Loose lips still sink ships.

Brian called me at 0800 on the 28 June and said we were definitely leaving. The transfer was to take place at 1000. I stayed behind to finish all the stuff I had to get done before I left. I called the guys and told them that Bremer and I were leaving. Blackwater still did not know. I set it up for Drew B to call them after we had wheels up from the airport. Blackwater did not have to know that we were leaving early. With all the issues at the team house, I did not want to risk letting anyone there know the new plan. I called the new detail leader and asked him to swing by my trailer. When he showed up, I wished him well. All he was worried about was that I gave him the keys to my trailer so he could ensure he did not have a roommate. I gladly gave him the keys and schlepped my gear to the staging area.

Word began to leak out—the transfer of power had taken place. By 1100 when Ambassador Bremer arrived back at the palace, quite a few people were there to say good-bye. I thought the hand shaking and tearful good-byes would never end. The ambassador shook every hand and posed for every picture. Even some of my guys asked for photos with him. He took every picture that was asked of him. To the last day he was approachable and nice to every person who had sacrificed their time and energy to the mission of rebuilding Iraq.

We went to LZ Washington and I took a long look around at what had been home for the last eleven months. It was almost over. Now we just had to get to the airport and fly out. The military sent two Chinooks for the move. There was a lot of baggage and quite a few folks accompanying us to the airport. And, of course, the obligatory press conference and picture taking that would document the departure. We boarded the Chinooks for the trip to the airport. We were so close.

We landed behind two C-130s, and the ambassador made his way to the VIP lounge where he met with a few other people. The press had been placed around the C-130 that had been identified as the one that would take us home. They were behind some stanchions and took pictures as the ambassador and I made our way to the waiting C-130. My guys kept a wary eye on everyone and everything that was going on around us—what we called “head on a swivel.” We were so close to success, and we so wanted to make sure nothing happened on the last mission we would do together and with the ambassador. The ambassador waved good-bye and climbed into the plane. I followed. My Bremer detail teammates began making their way back to the VIP lounge to load up and head back to the Green Zone. Their responsibility for Ambassador Bremer had ended. The crew closed the doors and fired up the engines. As the press left the area the ambassador smiled and he and I settled in for what seemed like an eternity. It was a strange feeling being on a C-130 alone with the ambassador. For eleven months there had always been a team around him or his staff and the press—usually anywhere from twenty to forty people. On this day, it was just the two of us.

About fifteen minutes later, after the press had departed, following our prearranged plan the C-130 pilot radioed to a Chinook helo to tell the pilot that the press had departed. Two minutes later the crew chief gave the ambassador and me the all-clear signal, and he began to lower the ramp of the plane. The plane, which was in fact a decoy, had been loaded floor to ceiling with very real supplies destined for another location in Iraq. The ambassador and I proceeded to crawl over the cargo to the back tail ramp. C-130s are large, propeller-driven cargo planes with large tail ramps that can be lowered for ease of loading. This is also the easiest way for personnel to board or deplane. The pilots had parked the decoy plane in such a way that when they lowered the ramp no one could see us get off. After the previous day’s shooting that killed a guy on departure, we were taking no chances. Intel reports were coming in as late as our departure to the airport that the militants would shoot the ambassador’s plane out of the sky.

The rear door touched the tarmac and we ran about fifty yards to a waiting Chinook. Not only was Ambassador Bremer now without his full Blackwater detail, I was his sole cover, and I was unarmed for the first time since September 2003. Getting arrested in D.C. with a weapon would have been the worst possible way to end the mission! As we jogged across the runway I hoped that the ruse had worked and none of the bad guys had spotted us. I was still nervous. My job was not yet done. We climbed into the Chinook and were greeted by none other than Sue Shea, Colonel Scott Norwood, Brian Mac, and Dan Senor, who were anxiously awaiting our arrival. Everyone was smiling.

After Bremer and I left the C-130, the pilots kept up the pretense by continuing to idle the engines. Once our Chinook lifted off, they shut down the C-130 and deplaned. To this day I hope that the insurgents who were lying in wait for us stayed in their positions for a few long hours baking in the June sun waiting for a C-130 to take off and fly over their positions so they could do whatever they had planned to do. No C-130s flew that day.

The Chinook quickly took us to another area of the airport where a small U.S. government jet waited for us. Trying to look over both shoulders at the same time, I followed closely behind the ambassador as we boarded the small plane. In a few minutes­ The Bremer Detail would be over. We boarded and took off without incident. From Baghdad to Amman, Jordan, seemed like an eternity. It was actually ninety minutes. I had asked the pilots to let me know when we were out of Iraqi airspace. When they signaled back to me, I felt a great weight lifted from my shoulders. We had done it. Everyone was smiling and chatting. It felt great. The ambassador, of course, continued to work on the way home. He was a machine to the end.

We landed in Jordan and transferred to a larger jet for the trip to Andrews Air Base. I called Kim and told her that I was safe, that we had done it, and I would be in the United States that night. The flight was surreal. It was the moment I had been trying not to think about because I did not want to lose focus on the mission. I tried to relax but could not. My thoughts went back to my team on the ground. I was hoping they were enjoying a tall cold drink and celebrating what we had accomplished. At that moment, I again reminded myself that we had not lost the ambassador, had not had a member of the team killed or injured, and we had not fired a single shot or killed or injured anyone in the course of our mission. I was satisfied and proud. All the hard work, sleepless nights, and worry had been worth it.