Dirty Deeds Done Cheap (3 page)

We were told that there was no rank structure on camp but we did have a project manager who had overall command. He was South African and I would meet him in the morning; but for now I was advised to get my head down. I turned the air conditioning up and quickly fell asleep.

I woke up at 06.00, had a shower, grabbed my joining paperwork and went for a walk round. There was no one about! I wandered about in a bit of a daze, as I’d not got my bearings yet. I eventually found the project manager, who seemed to be nursing a stinking hangover. He asked me who I was and I told him I was one of the new guys; he told me, after a brief chat, I was to go and see the store man who would issue me with some kit.

I went off and eventually found the stores. The store man looked as rough as fuck. He’d apparently been on the piss with the project manager the previous night. He asked me what weapons I wanted. I chose a Glock 19 pistol and M16 M4 assault rifle. The Glock 19 is a great pistol, if a little too small for my big hands, but it was either that or a Browning high-power, and in the past I’ve had stoppages with the Browning. Besides, the Glocks were brand-new, and everyone likes shiny new kit!

Later that day I went to meet the rest of my team and check out the vehicles we would be using. I was introduced to another expat, named Mike. Mike was team leader and in overall command. The rest of the team were to be ex-Fijian army guys. The vehicles we were using were two armoured Toyota Shoguns and one armoured American SUV (sport utility vehicle). These vehicles could withstand some minor roadside bombs and most types of gunfire. The two Toyotas would travel front and rear with the SUV in the middle. The SUV would have the client (or clients) inside; the Toyotas were for protection – gun buses, basically.

Our main task would be to take the clients off the planes that landed in Baghdad International and then escort them and pass them over to their own bodyguard teams. We would then ride alongside them in the Shoguns to provide a bit of added protection. The reason our team wasn’t part of the actual bodyguard team was that Mike and I were the only PSD (personal security detachment)-trained guys; most of the Fijians were not. The PSD teams were normally ex-British Army or ex-Royal Marines Commandos.

Before I could start work in Iraq I had to get my American ID card. This could be a right pain in the arse to get sometimes. This had to be carried with you at all times to enable you to get in and around US bases. It was going to take a week to get my ID, so I spent my spare time doing dry drills with the team (practising convoy protection) around the airport, going on the range and generally getting up to speed with procedures and getting as prepared as possible. Knowing your team and practising together is very important: the better you know how each other works, the more effective you’ll be when the shit hits the fan. And in Iraq the shit would, at one stage or another, hit the fan.

The following week, my American ID arrived and the first mission I was to take part in came through. Mike called us into the office and gave us our brief. We were to pick up the client from the plane and then take him to the outskirts of the airport. At the checkpoint, Checkpoint 1, he would then be handed over to his new PSD team; our SUV would then be dropped off. He would have to get out then. This could potentially be the most dodgy part of the operation, but we had concrete hangars where this could be done in relative safety, as it would be almost impossible for an insurgent sniper to pick him off. Their two-vehicle convoy would then join with our two vehicles, we’d do a comms check and go over the routes, so that everyone was crystal clear about what was going to happen, then proceed along Route Irish (the popular name for the Baghdad Airport road).

Route Irish is probably, or at least was, the most dangerous road in the world. There were daily bombings and shootings. Numerous American soldiers have been killed, along with more than a few PMCs, along this road, but, unfortunately, it’s the only route from the Baghdad Green Zone to the airport, so you’ve got no choice. Like it or lump it, it’s part of the job.

So here we were. We’d practised our drills and honed them the best we could, but that morning I must admit I was nervous. I’d heard horror stories about the road we were about to travel along. We set off from the checkpoint with trepidation. My adrenalin was flowing and everyone was buzzing; we were all ready. I asked Mike how many contacts they’d had. He reckoned about one in every tree trips. This ratio was high. I kind of hoped that, since this was my first run out, it wouldn’t be that one out of three; but I wasn’t really bothered because if the shit hit the fan I was ready. We were all ready.

I cocked my M16 and put on the safety, then we took off at a pretty rapid rate out of the checkpoint, but, because of the heavy armour we carried, the Land Cruisers were slightly slower (the armoured SUV was quicker because it had an uprated engine). As we travelled along Route Irish we started approaching some American convoys. You had to be extremely careful approaching the American military because they have a reputation for sometimes lighting non-military vehicles up (basically, shooting the crap out of them). Approaching fast towards them was a very bad idea, and so we slowed right down. You can’t really blame them for shooting up non-military vehicles because this is what a suicide bomber would do: drive slowly up to the convoy and then, at the last minute, speed up and detonate their device and take out most of the convoy. As soon as we were given the signal to pass, we overtook the Hummers (Humvees) and gave them a cursory wave as we went past. So far, so good.

Coming into the Green Zone there was an increased military presence: lots of barriers, machine-gun nests, armoured vehicles and lookout posts. We then split off from the main convoy so that we could turn around. There was another team waiting to take over from us – their PSD guys. It was all in their hands now. We now just had to try to make it back to the airport in one piece.

As we turned around in this dangerous place we could hear some small-arms fire. I didn’t think it was directed as us at first, but then the first round struck our vehicle, then another. The American gunner, on the checkpoint’s machine-gun nest, then opened up and all hell broke loose. No disrespect intended, but there is nothing worse than some nineteen-year-old Marine from Alabama with a .50 calibre heavy machine gun (or .50-cal, as we tend to call them) – they can be a bit trigger-happy at the best of times, though I guess that, since they were just young frightened guys, you couldn’t really blame them. We just nailed it out of there as fast as possible and tried to get out of the line of fire, and especially get out of the kill zone that we were obviously in or, more importantly, were going into.

The comms were going mad and I was told by one of the Fijians that this was apparently pretty close to where an American officer was killed (his head blown apart by a sniper) the week before. It was a known sniper hotspot. We were in a tricky situation. Our vehicle behind was then hit. As long as it was small-arms fire we would pretty much be OK because of our armour, but if they got a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) off we’d really be in the shit. An RPG would take you out. We were now nearly in the clear but, as we were all trying to get out of the kill zone, there was a commotion on the comms again. Unbelievably, a round that had been fired by an insurgent sniper had gone between the door frame and glass, the most vulnerable point in the vehicle, and had hit the Fijian bodyguard sitting in the passenger seat of the rear vehicle. We didn’t know the extent of his injuries but we couldn’t stop to check or assess them because to stop would be suicide. We just knew we had to get out of there – and quick!

The rounds had stopped striking now, but we were far from out of danger, because the whole of Route Irish could be a shooting gallery. We drove as fast as possible, each of us aware of our bleeding but conscious comrade and the need to get him medical attention as soon as we could. The Fijian in the back seat was in the meantime applying pressure to his wound. As soon as we’d got past the road blocks, which were manned by American troops at Baghdad Airport (and some of our company’s guys), they had a medic team waiting for us. They went straight to work on the Fijian and the paramedics got him straight into an ambulance. He had, miraculously, been hit in the shoulder, the 7.62mm round ripping out a large chunk of flesh. Those Fijians are hard bastards, mind, and he was out of hospital the next day with a shoulder full of stitches. Once we were back on camp and with our Fijian comrade being looked after, we took the Land Cruisers down to the garage to give them a good once-over. Apart from the bullet strikes, there was no real damage. Some of these vehicles cost over £100,000 each and are designed to take quite a large bomb hit.

Over the next week we did three more runs without incident.

The airport in Baghdad was a fascinating place. There were quite a few companies based there. There is a company called Triple Canopy (TC), who employ only ex-US Special Forces, and there is Blackwater, who do pretty much the same. After the war ended in 2003, Blackwater were probably one of the first PMC companies out in Iraq and, going along Route Irish, they lost an alarming number of personnel. It was their men who hit the headlines in the papers when they were dragged out of their vehicles, executed and then dragged through the streets and hung up and burned in Fallujah. This had been broadcast on TV channels across the world and was a truly shocking sight, showing what can go wrong if you get complacent or unlucky.

Baghdad – and Iraq in general – is such a volatile place. With danger lurking around every corner you must always have your wits about you. Every precaution must be taken to avoid getting ambushed or, even worse, getting trapped and boxed in down some side street. This is why route selection is so very important on jobs. To be captured would be just unimaginable.

We were based at Baghdad Airport near to Triple Canopy, and we often used to go over and visit, just for a coffee or a tea, or in the evening something stronger maybe. Early one morning Mike and I were on our way over to meet up with some of the guys from TC to go for a run. Being ex-US Special Forces, most of them are pretty fit. We set off for our run, carrying just our pistols. We were just building up a sweat and getting a pace going when we heard the familiar whine of incoming mortars. We had no cover to get behind! We were in the shit – big time. All we could do was hit the deck and hope for the best.

The first round struck some buildings nearby, shattering some of the glass and doors. When a mortar lands it is designed to explode as effectively as possible – it sends small shards of razor-sharp shrapnel in every direction and they can be lethal up to 100 metres. These things were doing just that, so we had to lie low and hope for the best.

Two more rounds dropped, roughly on the same location. We looked at each other nervously at first, then everyone got the giggles! Why is it that in situations like these you tend to laugh? When we thought that it was all clear and relatively safe, we made our move. We needed to get back to our compounds, and fast, since we weren’t sure whether any more of these things were going to come down on us. I don’t think any one of us had ever run so fast in his life. When we got back to the safety of our compounds, we were all knackered! I had a shower. That had been one close escape and it was certain that we’d have quite a few more to come in the future, but hopefully not when we were out for a run.

Life travelling along Route Irish and bumming around camp soon began to wear thin. I started to look around different companies for different jobs, but I soon decided it was time to go home on some leave. I was due some, so I put in a leave request and was soon off. Leave was nice and chilled, but for some weird reason it was good to come back.

When I arrived back off leave, everything workwise was pretty uneventful. I got back into camp and fell back into the routine, the normal rigmarole. I went to have a coffee with my boss and asked him if the French guy (Phillipe) had gone up north yet. He said he had. Don’t ask me why, but I immediately asked for a job change. The boss gave me a frown and a slightly shifty look. ‘You don’t want to go up there, not unless you’re not arsed about coming back in one piece or at all.’ After a week of pestering I got my job change. My boss was extremely reluctant to let me go and kept asking me why I wanted to go. I couldn’t tell him why I wanted to go – I just knew that I did. He eventually relented and I got ready for the off. Good move or bad move I didn’t know.

I turned up at 05.00 the next morning, handed in my M16 and Glock in the stores and proceeded to the main terminal at Baghdad International Airport. At 06.30 a civilian Russian plane landed and we all proceeded to get on board. There were around thirty of us, mainly Fijians, all travelling up to Mosul. I couldn’t believe it when we boarded – the plane had two pretty Russian air stewardesses on board, and after takeoff we were served with an orange juice. Here we were, flying into the most dangerous place in Iraq in a civilian airliner.

After a great takeoff and once the seat-belt signs went off, I went into the cockpit to talk to the pilots. They were both Russian and I asked them if they knew that they were flying into the most dangerous place in the world. ‘We were helicopter pilots in Afghan war, Iraq no bother us,’ was their answer. So here I was flying in broad daylight into the most dangerous place in the world piloted by two psycho Russian shot-to-pieces war veterans! At this time the military wouldn’t even fly into Mosul in broad daylight, fearing it was too dangerous! So I went back to my seat, feeling pretty nervous (on military aircraft you at least have quite a few countermeasures against missile attacks, but on civilian aircraft you have none). I sat down and buckled in. Two hours later we were coming in to land. I was just waiting for some sort of projectile to hit us but everything went fine. In fact we could have been landing anywhere in the world and you wouldn’t have known any difference. Very smooth, these pilots weren’t fazed by anything. They were proper headcases.