Licensed to Kill (11 page)

Falling Out and Falling Down

President Aristide of Haiti contracted with the Steele Foundation in San Francisco in 1998 to provide bodyguards. The business relationship was approved by the State Department, which had a vested interest in keeping Aristide alive and in power. The initial detail was about ten bodyguards but was increased to about sixty by 2000 when it became apparent that Aristide's police could not or would not put down violent insurrections that plagued the island. Aristide was paying between $6 and $9 million a year, with a weapons package hovering around a million dollars, in a country considered to be the poorest in the Western Hemisphere. There was a direct coup attempt against Aristide on December 17, 2001, by Guy Philippe, a former police commissioner from northern Haiti. Philippe returned from exile in the neighboring Dominican Republic in early 2004 to attempt Aristide's overthrow again. In late February 2004, he and sixty armed supporters took over control of Cap-Haïtien, Haiti's second largest city, from where he started taunting and threatening Aristide. By then, Aristide's detail had been trimmed down and hovered at around twenty to twenty-five men, most of them ex-military with PSD experience.

In early February, rebels began to push against the four-thousand-man, poorly trained Haitian police force. They posed little to no resistance, and Aristide ordered another twenty-five contractors from Steele to beef up his detail. One of the assumptions was that the former military supplied by Steele might be used as trainers and force multipliers for his beleaguered police force. However, the U.S. State Department denied the additional contractors permission to travel to Haiti. By that point, Aristide had been so marginalized in his own country that he no longer served the needs of the United States.

Early in the morning of February 28, 2004, members of Aristide's security detail came to him and said they were supposed to escort him to the embassy. But actually, U.S. officials had asked Steele to pull out immediately and advised that the replacement team of twenty-five contractors would not be allowed to leave the States for Haiti. Aristide later said it was “white American soldiers” who told him that he needed to leave. Hart Brown, a contractor on the detail, however, told me that Ambassador James Foley contacted Aristide at 5:00
A
.
M
. and said that they would be holding a press conference at the U.S. embassy to announce his resignation. The American rationale was that if Aristide did not leave, there would be bloodshed with thousands killed. Aristide and his detail were driven by his military escort right by the embassy and to the airport, where he was told to get on a waiting plane. There were U.S. soldiers in uniform, including marines, and more surprisingly, his entire security detail boarded the plane as well. It was a white plane with the only notable marking being a small U.S. flag on the tail. The window shades were pulled down, and their destination was not revealed. Strangely, some of the Steele employees brought their wives and children, so they obviously had prior knowledge of the quickly unfolding events.

At 5:45
A
.
M
., now former president Aristide flew out on a fifty-five-seat plane with nineteen employees of the Steele Foundation and twenty members of the U.S. military. There were other U.S. operators on the plane as well, and all changed out of their uniforms into civilian clothes before they landed. After a stop in what Aristide thought was Antigua (apparently it was Miami) to set up arrangements for their exile, he and his entourage were flown to Africa to be welcomed by President François Bozizé of the Central African Republic. Aristide immediately began accusing the U.S. government of kidnapping him. The U.S. government officially stated that it was “nonsense.” Secretary of State Colin Powell (a former client of Steele) said, “He was not kidnapped. We did not force him on the airplane. He went on the plane willingly.”

Ken Kurtz, CEO of the Steele Foundation, refused most opportunities to comment on the circumstances of Aristide's overthrow, and would usually go little further than saying that the personal safety of Aristide and his family was the only concern of Steele.

Hart Brown, a contractor on the team that escorted Aristide out of the country, had a slightly different recollection. “At the end we all knew that there might be a conflict of interest. When the State Department asked Aristide to step down, he refused and was flown to Miami…. It was a decision taken at the corporate level in order to keep further contracts.” Aristide knew that he would never survive without his PSD, and if the U.S. government advised Steele that it would be in the best interests of their business future to pull out, Aristide had little choice but to go with them. Even considering the implications of the U.S. State Department asking Steele to pull out, the Aristide example does not seem to have been a situation of the United States backing a coup. However, it certainly exemplifies how dependent foreign leaders may feel if they know the American government could collude to withdraw security if displeased.

Part Two

The New Breed

CHAPTER 4

         

Confirmed Kills

“We are not merely imperfect creatures that need improvement: we are rebels that need lay down their arms.”

—C. S. L
EWIS,
T
HE
P
ROBLEM OF
P
AIN

It's impossible to get the attention of the waitress at the Dallas Convention Center. Buzz-cut, muscular men wearing tight-fitting golf shirts pack the tiny lounge tables, creating a forest of empty beer bottles and glasses all awaiting fresh refills. Dallas is hosting the ASIS (American Society for Industrial Security) convention, and the independent contractors, or ICs, as they call themselves, have come to network. The red glow of cigars illuminates discreet discussions of potential mercenary and security work between wide-eyed amateurs and battle-hardened pros, many just back from Afghanistan or Iraq.

On the surface, ASIS is a dull security equipment and video camera convention, but it has become a social center for contractors, as well as a sprawling showcase for high-tech gizmos and for the providers of security services. It's the summer of 2004, and this is the first ASIS conference to vividly demonstrate the impact the Iraq war has had on the security industry. Gone is the old-boy networking at the now-defunct Soldier of Fortune conventions in tattered Las Vegas hotels. Since demand for security services has skyrocketed in Iraq, ex-soldiers can find plenty of aboveboard professional employment opportunities with corporations like Blackwater, Triple Canopy, the Steele Foundation, and the other private security outfits that hide among the acres of display booths. The companies come here with slick booths and displays to attract potential clients, meet friends, hand out brochures, and talk business to business. The contractors, flush with money but light on social contacts, flock to these conventions like a band of gypsies seeking like-minded tribesmen. Informal cc'ed and bcc'ed chain e-mails let the ICs know who will be at what show, and here they can talk shop, share a room, meet with potential clients, relive past gigs, and meet new people. Since it is through this vast, interconnected web of friendships that word of new contracts usually trickles down, networking these functions can minimize the inevitable periods of unemployment any independent contractor will have during his career. Although the high day rate of contractors means that hanging out at the show is costing everyone in the room at least $400 to $600 dollars a day, they don't sweat it. Professionals know that stacking too many gigs back to back leads to burnout, and then the personal life goes to hell and you can't even keep a girlfriend, let alone an apartment. In a disconnected global marketplace where contractors bounce between hot spots and hometowns, hanging here with their tribe allows many to enjoy a sense of belonging lacking even in their own homes.

In the convention center bar, an animated and loquacious young Blackwater contractor named Shannon Campbell holds court at one of the tiny round tables. As he spins his tale for me about life as a contractor, the spread of burly men surrounding Shannon expands as more stop to listen. At thirty-five, with his dark blond hair long and hanging over his forehead, Shannon looks like a dead ringer for the star of the movie
Dune,
except that he wears the T-shirt, sandals, and ball cap of a beach bum. Small-framed and comparatively short for a contractor with an almost lithe manner of movement, Shannon does not look, act, or walk military. His handle oddly enough is Cougar Bait—not because of his catlike demeanor, but because he insists that married women always target him on his home visits.

Shannon's bravado seems to mask a concern about how other contractors perceive him, since he is one of the few nonmilitary ICs working high-level security in Iraq. But if Blackwater likes to project a certain kind of image, then Shannon must be it. In the news photos of the day the CPA handed authority over to the Iraqis, Shannon can be seen out front clearing the way for Bremer and standing guard nearby as he speaks. Blackwater also thinks highly enough of Shannon to assign him to work the Blackwater booth at ASIS. He has the rapid wit of someone used to thinking on his feet, and that personality plus his superior shooting skills have made him a favorite of management. Away from the machismo of the other contractors, Shannon will admit that he is a big fan of C. S. Lewis, particularly
The Problem of Pain.
The book he carries with him is underlined, notated, and obviously read repeatedly.

Contrary to most independent contractors, who logically transition into the security industry after having careers in the military or law enforcement, Shannon just read a news article about mercenary outfits or “private military companies” like Executive Outcomes and Sandline and decided that he'd found his calling. He ran up credit card debt and worked day jobs, such as managing his father-in-law's flower shops and funeral parlor, to pay for martial arts classes and bodyguard and weapons training, until he had racked up enough experience to break into the industry. After a brief stint at Marquez Vance Marquez (MVM), a prime security contractor for the CIA, he found a home with Blackwater, where he learned that it was his mental endurance as much as his experience that would drive a successful career in his chosen field.

As he explains to me, “Contracting is not a job for higher-ups. They just work on their tan. All they do is whine. It's a mental thing. You have to put up with the rigors of working in a place like Iraq day in and day out. But really, the number one criterion for getting over is having been there. Hey, even if you are an MP [military police], I say get your shit into Blackwater.”

Getting in might be easier than staying in, since Shannon tells me that even after completing training, a contractor can be knocked out of rotation. Getting out of sync with the ninety days on/thirty days off spin cycle means a contractor could make half of what he expected. “Even if you make it, your relationship with Blackwater is very shifty…. We bring in twenty and send home ten—trial by fire. They can't complain if they don't make it at Blackwater. Some guys can bring it on, but most of them just worry if their gear matches. They will wear the checkered scarf, or wear a Blackwater shirt, and they think they are the shit. The guys I respect are the ones that the five of them live in a small building out in the boonies. Those guys would be allowed to give anyone shit.

“The big money is in the OGA contracts. MVM hires OGA guards. They have to have SCI clearance. You could be five foot two in every direction with one eye, but as long as you have that clearance you can still work with them. And if you want to know who is OGA? They wear two IDs—DoD and embassy. Their ID is thicker because they have to open it up to show their CIA ID.

“Blackwater can be like a fucking restaurant. You've got hundreds of people coming through. They usually fall into two categories. You've got the under-thirty crowd—the whippersnappers just looking for the biggest paycheck. Then you got the over-thirty crowd—the guys with a family and kids that are looking for a company to work for. The oldest person I know working for Blackwater is Jesse at fifty-five. His claim to fame is that he has been in an unbelievable number of shootouts and survived. Just a good ole country boy. His performance is impeccable.”

Shannon wants to illustrate the world of the IC in “Bangdad,” and so sketches out a cartoonish map of Baghdad on a napkin. “There is the Green Zone and there is the Red Zone. The Green Zone is a well-defined area along the Tigris with three controlled entrances. The Green Zone is this arc above the ‘Schlong'—a large peninsula created by a loop in the Tigris, more politely known as the ‘Thumb.' The mortars come from here,” he says, pointing across the river to the northwest, “to hit the military on the tip of the Schlong. OGA is right against the Tigris. They also have an awesome lounge and chow hall. You can even get Snickers bars and soft-serve ice cream. Assassin's Gate is here. Baby Assassin's Gate is just past it. A thousand-pound truck bomb went off at Baby Assassin's Gate. It shook the entire area, lifted the dust off the sidewalk. When we heard that one back at the team house, we didn't really move, just looked at each other and said, ‘Sounds like a truck bomb.' The ICs live inside the Green Zone. The most dangerous road is Route Irish—the road from the Green Zone to BIAP [Baghdad International Airport]. The road is also called IED Alley. We go everywhere. The word in the Red Zone is that we are hired killers. ‘Mercenaries' they call us. Thank God for CNN!”

Shannon breaks up in laughter, which mutates into coughing. He has to stub out his cigarette and take a drink before continuing. “Some of the Iraqi chicks come up and take pictures with us. Our ID says Blackwater contractor, but we can't admit it. They think we get into fights all the time. The military sees us all jocked up. They ask stuff like, ‘How many confirmed do you get every time you out?' They have no idea what we do. They think we are hired killers, too.”

Clustered around the table in the haze of smoke sit a dozen or so other contractors who occasionally interject their own comments or simply nod their heads in obvious assent to whatever Shannon describes. Hart Brown is the quietest contractor among the group. A clean-cut, small-featured, articulate business grad from Arlington, Texas, Hart seems out of place while surrounded by shaven-headed, mustachioed, burly men in the blue-collar, old-boy, mostly Deep South world of the contractor. But first impressions deceive. He worked in Haiti on the Aristide security detail for the Steele Foundation before moving on to protect Bremer in Iraq for Blackwater, and he has continued with various assignments since. “I thought the Bremer detail was another high-level gig that could benefit me in the future. Five or ten years down the road, we are likely to have major investments there. I thought if I don't have experience, I wouldn't have opportunities later. I am an unusual guy to have on the operations side.”
Unusual
would be the right word, considering that Hart previously worked in nonsecurity roles for the Department of Justice and World-Com, and possesses degrees in radiological health engineering, behavioral science, criminal justice, and hazards. The thoughtful intellectual obviously spends time thinking about more than just the bang-bang aspect of his career. More important, Hart has the ability to look forward, and he recognizes some of the conflicting demands of the job.

“In Iraq I am concerned about the issue of sovereignty. I had concerns about the idea of carrying a weapon under coalition control, but now it's a sovereign state. What exactly are the liabilities of carrying a gun?…Bremer signed a document that said contractors were exempt. I would still be more hesitant now that sovereignty has changed.” Hart has also become hesitant because he has seen how the exploding demand for security in Iraq has lowered the standards of the suppliers. “If someone called me for a gig these days, I would want to know all the specifics. Business has grown so fast that the companies are not that concerned about the people that work for them.” When he was working in Iraq, Hart was also concerned about having to work in concert with the State Department's Diplomatic Security Service (DSS). A great deal of animosity exists between the DSS and security contractors in Iraq, with DSS viewing contractors as overpaid cowboys and the contractors viewing DSS details as bureaucratic losers. The discord engendered by the culture clash between the DSS and contractors disrupts the group cohesion that can be key to survival in a high-risk environment. In another decision that sets him apart from other contractors, Hart decided that the combined risks of working in Iraq were simply not worth the money, so he is taking a break. Luckily for Hart, he has degrees and experience that will soften his transition back into a nonsecurity-related field. Most of the ex-military and small-town cops who work as ICs simply don't have that luxury.

So would he take bigger money to work in Iraq? “Iraq? I can take it or leave it.” Hart shrugs.

Lamont, a hulking black ex-marine who has worked in Iraq, disagrees: “Iraq is the Super Bowl. It's where the money is flowing.” Lamont's only conflict is seeing his kids through the school year and making sure he gets a good enough gig so they can live comfortably. Though normal gigs typically pay between $500 and $650 a day, he was making $850 a day doing OGA security. Lamont has been seeking new opportunities that will allow him to use the security clearances he got in the Marine Corps to maximize his income potential. Although a staunch patriot with combat experience, Lamont questions why we are in Iraq—not from a legal perspective like Hart, but from the moral perspective. “In the military I was told not to question, so I didn't. But now that I am out, I want to know exactly why we are in Iraq.”

His cell phone rings, interrupting the discussion. Lamont has been trying to put together a team to fill a short-term PSD contract in Israel. “Do you want to do Jerusalem? It only pays five-fifty,” he asks after hanging up his phone.

“Five-fifty?” Shannon says with disgust.

“Sure, why not? It's money. There is also Beijing coming up.”

Shannon dismisses Beijing and Jerusalem with a wave of his hand. He has had a taste of the high-risk, high-paying contracts and now doesn't want to waste his time with anything less. He plans to go back to Al Hillah, Iraq, for what he calls a “combat” PSD—a group more likely to be attacked and thrown into the middle of a conflict. “Last time I was there I got two confirmed kills. They say you are supposed to have all kinds of things go through your head when you kill someone. I just had this guy coming at me and I aimed and squeezed. Center mass. He went down. Then another guy aimed his AK from the gut at me, and I squeezed off a few more. I didn't even think about it.”

The majority of contractors could be said to resemble the Lamont model—ex-military or -police who have realized that their specialized training has limited value in the civilian world, and who, in order to provide well for their families, take serious risks for the healthy pay it affords. However, roughly 10 percent of those I have met consider themselves professional career contractors who do it because they enjoy strapping on armor and heavy weapons for the well-paying, high-risk, adrenaline-packed thrill ride, like Shannon. Then, of course, there are always a handful of men like Hart, who enter the arena for one or two contracts and then decide the pay is not worth the risk of death or serious injury. The dividing line seems to be the ability to replicate an average annual income of $80,000 to $150,000 in a less-hostile occupation. Some will move on to safer, equally rewarding jobs; others will be forced to work the danger zones to maintain that level of pay.