Mercenary Mum: My Journey from Young Mother to Baghdad Bodyguard (19 page)

THE NEXT FEW MONTHS
in Australia were a welcome relief. Bruce and Pamela were still insisting that I live with them, and I was happy to take them up on the offer. We were building a really solid friendship between the three of us. Each morning I would drop off Kane and his stepsister Sonya at school. I’d then go for a run, have a shower and change. By the time I had finished, Pamela would be up with her new baby girl, Sapphire (Kane’s half-sister), and then we’d have a coffee together. It was the simple life.

Not sure if I wanted to return to Iraq to work again, I left for South Africa to complete the Ronin close protection course. It was everything I’d hoped it would be and more. The medical and weapons components of the course were top quality. Due to all the safety protocols in the military sometimes training can be restrictive. But in South Africa, I did things I would not normally have been able to. I fired left-handed, right-handed, in daylight, and in darkness. I shot from moving vehicles, I shot while running from cover to cover, and I shot while protecting my client. It was undoubtedly the best weapons course I’d ever done.

By the time I left, I had learnt new methods for providing protection and gained some valuable medical and weaponry skills. I felt confident that I could get a job anywhere in the world. How many women can say they have completed the elite MP close protection course, as well as the Ronin course? Bugger that, how many men can say the same?

I returned to Australia, and a spent another few months staying with Bruce and Pamela. My feet were getting itchy, though. I had enough money to buy a small unit in Cairns (to store my furniture in), but not quite enough for a decent-sized house in Canberra. I had to go back to work. I contacted Lizard and arrangements were made to go and work for Blackwater. He’d moved on to other work by that stage, but he made his incumbent country manager aware of who I was, and what my skills were.

On 11 September 2005, I left Australia. I was concerned about what awaited me back in Iraq. Would my old team still be there? Would I work in the same area? What would I do if I saw Jeep, Ghost or Merlin again?

Blackwater was more organised by far than my old company. It was also larger and had better capabilities, such as its own aircraft and pilots. No more having to stuff around at airports and fight to get onto planes. Blackwater was flying me and other contractors into Baghdad. In Jordan, we were walked step-by-step through all the airport procedures, and then shown aboard. I felt safe and secure among my colleagues, and knew that my company was taking good care of me.

We flew into Baghdad airport and were greeted by the team responsible for transporting us to the Green Zone. They had huge armoured vehicles, with guns mounted on top for all-round protection. The team was friendly, if a little taken aback at the sight of me. They were surprised that the company had hired a woman, but agreed it was a good idea, considering many of their clients were female.

After being issued with some equipment, I received a quick set of orders, and then we set out to the Green Zone. There was none of this shit about “driving as fast as you could to get the other side”. I was given arcs of responsibility to cover with my weapon, and I was informed of what to do if the vehicle was disabled. I knew where the medical kit was, where the spare ammo was, and what was expected of me.

We arrived at the Green Zone without incident. I gathered my equipment (which was not much, as my luggage hadn’t made it to Jordan) and went in to speak with the new country manager, Judas. Judas was a tall, well-built American. He had a goatee (as did most of the Americans I met), and warm eyes. He welcomed me into the company and handed me a ‘contractors’ code of conduct’ pamphlet. It listed guidelines that all employees were to follow while working for the company. I was impressed, to say the least. Here I was, in the middle of a war zone, working for a company that had taken active steps to be responsible and accountable. What a far cry that was from my previous job!

Judas promised me that he’d make enquiries on my behalf about my missing luggage, but, in the meantime, I’d have to make do with what I had. I was hastily introduced to my team, before being squashed into the back of an armoured car and transported out to the Red Zone. Our team house was located in the Karrada district, not far from the entrance to the Green Zone. The site had its own security, which comprised both local and Western security guards. It was also heavily fortified with massive firepower capabilities. I was introduced to the rest of team, my gender surprising pretty much everyone there. But I was used to it: it was just another day in the life of a minority.

I was shown to my room, which was located in a house separate from the main headquarters. The compound I worked in was composed of several houses, all located on the one street. Our section of the district was blocked off by several security points so it was relatively safe to walk from house to house. Nevertheless body armour was always used, especially when escorting clients around the area. I was shown to my room and introduced to the guy I would be sharing with.

Scooter was a tall American, with blond hair and blue eyes. He was married, a Mormon, and had a deep Southern drawl. I was paired up with him as he was voted the ‘least likely to put the moves on me’. I listened to this with a smirk on my face. It was such a male thing to think! I wasn’t interested in any kind of attention from men. If I were ever going to have a man in my life, he’d have to be a Canberran. There was no way Bruce would ever agree to my moving somewhere else with Kane, especially with his taking responsibility for him while I was away.

No, I was here to do my job and make some money. I just needed enough for a decent-sized deposit (and then a little extra), so I could retire from the business and get a ‘real job’. I’d probably only need to do this rotation plus one more before I could hang up my gun for good.

I settled into my room, using one of my cupboards as a divider between our bed spaces. I had a couple of trunks that I’d left with Bee, which contained personal weapons, clothes and other equipment. Thank goodness I had a few pairs of pants in there. I’d been wearing the same ones for the past three days. With my luggage still missing, I could not change clothes. I was beginning to smell so I went to take a quick shower.

Feeling refreshed, I unpacked the rest of my equipment and settled into my room. There was a huge TV in our room, with two armchairs facing towards it.
Man, were we going to be comfortable.
I sat down and chatted to Scooter, and slowly we got to know each other better. The same old questions came out.
What’s your training? Who have you worked for? How long have been in country? Are you married? Do you have children?

Scooter was an ex–US MP member. We had that in common. He had served over here with the military, but was now content to work as a contractor: the money was better, as were the working conditions. That was about it. He wanted what we all did – enough money to set himself up. He wanted to own his own home and then he could just ‘survive’ on normal wages. It was the mantra of every contractor: do the hard yards now, and then enjoy life mortgage-free.

I asked Scooter about the job, and he talked me through it. While here, we would escort clients around the area (they worked from another building located in the compound). At times we’d have to send a full team into the Green Zone with the clients so they could attend meetings. Sometimes we’d have to make BIAP trips to pick up and drop off clients at the airport, or maybe to get supplies from the PX store.

Our team employed low-profile drills, meaning we drove and mixed with the local traffic. Being tasked as a driver on my team, I soon learnt how things went on the Red Zone roads. I’d weave in and out of traffic, cut cars off, drive at ridiculous speeds, hog the road, and generally do everything I wouldn’t dare to in Australia. It was crazy, but necessary, and everybody did it. It was how things worked in Iraq.

I was going to enjoy working on this contract. I liked my teammates, I liked my job and I liked my company. Thank God not all teams operated like my last. If this one had been the same, I would have quit on the spot. There was no way I’d put myself through that kind of crap again. This team was operating like a team. The leaders were competent; they gave good orders and intelligence briefings, and cared about each member. I knew I was in safe hands.

THE NEXT THREE WEEKS
cruised by at an amazing rate. The team was being supplied with new armoured vehicles, worth hundreds of thousands of dollars each. We were tasked to drive out to the BIAP to pick them up. Our project had three separate teams, each one allocated different tasks and missions moving clients around. All three teams would be required for this task. As the vehicles were brand-new, shiny and black – far too recognisable as Western vehicles – the low-profile approach was tossed out the window.

It was decided we’d complete this mission in high-profile fashion. We were to be heavily armed and visibly aggressive. No vehicles would be permitted to enter our ‘safety bubble’. Warning shots were to be fired in front of offending vehicles, taking care not to injure anyone. If a driver refused to back away, we would fire at the engine blocks to disable the vehicle. The lethal option was to be employed as a last resort – only to be used if we felt our lives were in danger.

If a local Iraqi driver refused to back off after shots had been fired firstly in front of their vehicle, and then secondly at their engine block, it was a safe bet that they were dangerous – they were most likely to be a suicide bomber or the catalyst for an attack. Either way, no innocent person would continue driving towards a convoy that was firing shots in their direction.

On this particular trip, I was located in the rear vehicle of the convoy, operating as a rear shooter with another guy. We took several slip roads in the Red Zone, before finding ourselves stuck at a set of traffic lights. We were dislocated from the rest of the convoy, and couldn’t proceed further due to traffic blockages in front of us. How we ended up like that, I have no idea. I was too busy looking out the rear of the vehicle to know. We were edgy. Our driver was looking for a break in traffic so he could push his way through to the rest of the team.

I was in the back, looking behind me, when I spotted a vehicle full of armed, hooded locals. Straightaway I alerted the vehicle commander: a white Nissan Patrol was approaching us. The rear tray contained about five locals, armed with AK-47s, and all wearing balaclavas.
This is it
, I thought to myself. If these dodgy bastards weren’t insurgents, I don’t know who were. They inched towards us, and shots were fired. The guy sitting next to me let off a few warning shots, and immediately the Nissan slowed down.

Other vehicles around us made an effort to drive away from us. As it was an armoured vehicle, the rear windows did not roll down. So I cracked my door open slightly, ready to light up the insurgents if they returned fire. I was shitting myself. I didn’t want to kill someone if I didn’t have to, but if they pointed their weapons in my direction, I would let them have it.

Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. The lights changed colour, and we sped off to catch up to the rest of the team. The insurgents never caught up to us; perhaps they had another mission they had to complete. It was thought that they might have been Iraqi police, as they had recently commenced patrolling Route Irish. They often wore balaclavas to hide their identities from insurgents, and protect themselves and their families. These guys didn’t wear uniforms and their vehicle wasn’t labelled as police either. In the end, we didn’t know, but we were not going to take any chances.

We got to the BIAP and picked up all five shiny, new black armoured cars. They were awesome. They were pure luxury inside and had incredible power under the hood. On return to the base, they would be painted a dull off-white so they would blend in with traffic a little easier. They wouldn’t be as inconspicuous as a beat-up old BMW, but their profile would be lowered.

We were all assigned vehicles to drive (or be a passenger in) for the return trip. There were only just enough people to do the job. Each vehicle had a driver and a passenger. I was located in the rear vehicle with the team leader, Church. He was the driver, and I was his rear security for both our vehicle and our team. My job was to shoot at any vehicle that got too close.

We started back to base with little drama. Shortly after leaving, however, we received a distress message from the vehicle in front of us. The car was an old armoured BMW and the driver was having problems with the engine. It was losing power and couldn’t continue at a high speed. The driver went on to say that he thought he could keep pushing it until we got to the Green Zone, but that he couldn’t go faster than 30 kilometres an hour.

The convoy slowed to a crawl and very quickly traffic banked up behind us. We started to drive in a zigzag fashion across the road so as not to make ourselves easy targets for insurgents. A large truck began to creep up towards our vehicle. Was his truck laden with explosives? I cracked open my door and aimed my M-4 rifle at the driver’s head. I then lowered it and fired a round into the road in front of him. Instantly, he put his hands up in the air and backed the truck away. No more cars crept up on us after that.

Some days were tense, and some days were easy. We were paid the same no matter what. It had been a tense trip that day, but for the next week I managed to fit in watching an entire season of
Alias
with Scooter. We made another hairy trip out to the airport while I was there, but this time there were no bad guys involved.

Our team was tasked to pick up a client from the airport. We were part way along Route Irish when we got a flat tyre. Not willing to stop on the road and risk death, we had no choice but to continue on. We kept driving, but at a slower speed, until the rubber fell off the wheel. We didn’t know how long we could keep going before we’d need to change the tyre. Worse still, the traffic we’d zoomed past was now catching up to us. The driver, 86, then had a brainwave. He began to drive partly on the road and partly on the dirt. The dirt kicked up a huge dust storm behind us, creating just the smokescreen we needed.

It was an excellent way to discourage other vehicles from approaching us too closely from behind. No one wanted to risk driving through a dust storm to find out what was on the other side. Sparks flew from the damaged wheel, and the dirt billowed behind us. It would have been an awesome sight from afar.

We managed to make it to the checkpoint at Camp Victory, where we pulled off to the side of the road to change the tyre. As we worked furiously to do it quickly, several PSD teams passed us by. Some made jokes, some offered assistance and others just stared and drove past. For weeks after the incident, there were a hell of a lot of PSD guys asking me if I was the chick changing the tyre on Route Irish. I guess I still wasn’t as nondescript as I had hoped.

It was hard to just be a normal chick in such a testosterone-charged environment like Iraq. I liked being with my team, and when we went out together, no one would ‘bother’ me or try to chat me up because I had my mates there to rebuff them. When I was alone, though, I was like carrion to a bunch of vultures. Everyone wanted to make small talk with me. I didn’t blame them or anything. It’s hard working in a place where there aren’t many people of the opposite sex.

Whether they were military personnel or civilian contractors, it didn’t matter, I was practically having to beat them away with a stick. I was getting embarrassed by the attention. It wasn’t that I was amazingly beautiful or anything like that, I was just female. There was nothing I could do about it, except leave, of course, and I wasn’t prepared to do that just yet. Until then, I would have to deal with the marriage proposals from soldiers at checkpoints, and the endless chitchat with complete strangers.

Being part of a team that worked well together was a great feeling. Knowing that I could trust my leadership and my teammates was still a novelty, and I didn’t take it for granted. Each mission we completed, we did well. We went to the University of Baghdad and protected our clients as they gave lectures. We took them to hotels within the Red Zone, and protected them there. There were near misses, such as the time a client cancelled his lecture at a local hotel. Two hours later it was destroyed by a car bomb. Lucky client. Lucky team.

Not every mission I did with the team was ‘sanctioned’ by the company. I’d be lying if I said we never conducted ‘black ops’ or rogue operations that ran contrary to our duty statement. While we never did anything iniquitous, we did go on one or two unauthorised operations.

Operation Ice-Cream was one of our most desperate missions. It was 9.15 p.m. We were sitting in the common room of our house, with the clients fast asleep, or at least done for the day. We were having a bit of a team get-together, which involved teasing each other, chatting about other teams and talking about home. Out of the blue, the subject of ice-cream came up. I remarked on how I could really do with an ice-cream just then, and one of the team leaders piped up that there was an ice-cream shop down the road.

Now ‘down the road’ meant outside of our safe compound, onto the main road, and down a bit further than that. One minute we were talking about ice-cream, and then the next, we were planning an ad hoc mission. I won’t mention any of the names associated with this rogue outfit – after all, it was black ops – but we filled two cars. We got dressed in all our kit, and headed out into the night.

The road was mainly empty. Only a few cars were travelling this late at night, but people were still roaming the streets. As we approached the ice-cream store, we noticed several patrons were wandering around outside. It was the place to be at night! We pulled up right in front of the shop and exited our vehicles, just as we’d planned.

The drivers remained in the vehicles, with the engines on and the cars in gear, while the rest of us got into diamond formation around the guy doing the ordering. I remained close to him, as his bodyguard, as he proceeded to order banana, strawberry and chocolate waffles. The local people standing around were shocked and amused by what they saw. A team of big, tough Western security contractors, out and about after dark, ordering ice-cream.

An Iraqi policeman was sitting down on a nearby bench, watching with glee. After the orders had been placed and paid for, we left immediately. We tear-arsed our way back home, and found ourselves sitting in the common room eating ice-cream within fifteen minutes of leaving.

While the identities of my black ops team will always remain a secret, I will confirm that the ice-cream was absolutely delicious. The honeycomb waffles, covered in rich chocolate ice-cream, were to
die for.
Hey, what’s wrong with a little black humour? Okay, it wouldn’t have been so funny if I had actually been killed getting it, but surely it’s a little bit funny now? No?

My life on the team was going great. I was considered a valuable and good team member. That was all I’d ever wanted. I just wanted to be accepted for my skills. I was no one special, but I was competent enough to do my job well. I was fitting in and my teammates were accepting of me. Life was good. I could last another rotation if these were my working conditions. I didn’t have to deal with any of the crap I experienced with my last team. These guys were professional.

But all good things come to an end. Just when I thought my life was back on track, it was as if fate noticed and wanted to bring me down a peg or two. It started the day my company decided to move me to a more ‘female-friendly’ environment. Not long after that my worst nightmare came true.