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F
UN WITH THE
B
IG
S
HOTS
N
ow that they were here, I joined them and started doing some
DAs. Intel would find an IED-maker or maybe a financer, give us
the intel, and we’d go in and snag him. We’d hit them very early in
the morning—blow his door down, rush inside, and take him before
he even had a chance to get out of bed.
This went on for about a month. By now, DAs were pretty much
an old routine; they were a hell of a lot less dangerous in Baghdad
than in Fallujah.
We were living out near BIAP—Baghdad International Airport
—and working from there. One day, my chief came over and gave
me a chiefly grin.
“You’ve got to have some fun, Chris,” he told me. “You need to
do a little PSD.”
He was using SEAL sarcasm. PSD stands for “personal security
detail”—bodyguard duty. The platoon had been assigned to
provide security for high-ranking Iraqi officials. The insurgents had
started kidnapping them, trying to disrupt the government. It was a
pretty thankless job. So far, I’d been able to avoid it, but it seemed
my ninja smoke had run out. I left and went over to the other side of
the city and the Green Zone. (The Green Zone was a section of
central Baghdad that was created as a safe area for the allies and
the new Iraqi government. It was physically cut off from the rest of
the city by cement walls and barbed wire. There were only a few
ways in and out, and these were under strict control. The U.S. and
other allied embassies were located there, as were Iraqi government
buildings.)
I lasted an entire week.
The Iraqi officials, so-called, were notorious for not telling their
escorts what their schedules were or giving details on who was
supposed to be traveling with them. Given the level of security in the
Green Zone, that was a significant problem.
I acted as “advance.” That meant I would go ahead of an official
convoy, make sure the route was safe, and then stand at the
security checkpoint and ID the convoy vehicles as they came
through. This way the Iraqi vehicles could move through the
checkpoints quickly without becoming targets.
One day, I was advance for a convoy that included the Iraqi vice
president. I’d already checked the route and arrived at a Marine
checkpoint outside the airport.
Baghdad International was on the other side of the city from the
Green Zone. While the grounds themselves were secure, the area
around it and the highway leading to the gate still came under
occasional fire. It was a prime terror target, since the insurgents
could pretty much figure that anyone going in or out was related to
the Americans or the new Iraqi government in some way.
I was on radio coms with one of my boys in the convoy. He
gave me the details on who was in the group, how many vehicles
we had, and the like. He also told me that we had an Army
Hummer in the front and an Army Hummer in the back—simple
markers I could pass along to the guards.
The convoy came flying up, Hummer in the lead. We counted off
the vehicles and lo, there was the last Hummer taking up the rear.
All good.
All of a sudden, two more vehicles appeared behind them in hot
pursuit.
The Marines looked at me.
“Those two are not mine,” I told them.
“What do you want us to do?”
“Pull your Hummer out and train that .50 on them,” I yelled,
pulling up my M-4.
I jumped out in the roadway, gun raised, hoping that would get
their attention.
They didn’t stop.
Behind me, the Hummer had pulled up, and the gunner was
locked and loaded. Still unsure whether I was dealing with a
kidnapping or just some stray vehicles, I fired a warning shot.
The cars veered off and hauled ass the other way.
Thwarted kidnapping? Suicide bombers who’d lost their nerve?
No. Come to find out, these were two friends of the vice
president. He’d forgotten to tell us about them.
He wasn’t too pleased. My command wasn’t too pleased,
either. I got fired from my PSD job, which wouldn’t have been all
that bad except that I then had to spend the next week sitting in the
Green Zone doing nothing.
My platoon leadership tried to get me back for some DAs. But
the head shed had decided to stick it to me a bit, and kept me
twiddling my thumbs. That is the worst possible torture for a SEAL
—missing out on the action.
Luckily, they didn’t hang on to me for too long.
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