Mercenary Mum: My Journey from Young Mother to Baghdad Bodyguard (18 page)

I STRODE INTO
the country manager’s office to find another man sitting at his desk. He explained that the manager was out of the country and that he was the acting country manager (Acting CM). Acting or no, he was going to hear some serious shit from me. I slapped my medical slip on his desk and told him that it was my proof that I had burnt myself earlier. I was not ‘faking an injury’, as had been insinuated by Ghost and Jeep.

The Acting CM had only a basic idea of what was going on between the team leaders and me. So I told him everything: the kamikaze missions, the cocaine use, the bullying and intimidation, the gross irresponsibility and dangerous risk-taking. I had been sacked for having a relationship, while the other party didn’t get so much as a dressing-down. I’d had to fight to be given the same opportunities as the men I worked with, despite my being more experienced and better qualified than them. So much for being treated the same as my male counterparts, so much for the ‘equal workplace’ the company boasted that it had.

I grew weary. Nothing was going to change, no matter what I said. This man was only here for a few days; what could he do? I looked at him solemnly, and then said my final words to him. I told him that the leaders on this project were dangerous and that they were going to get members of the team killed.

The Acting CM drew in a long breath. He had only been with the company for a couple of weeks, and was blown away by what I had said. He was an ex–British forces high-ranking officer. He told me that everything I’d said had merit, and was most likely true. He said, “Things happen for a reason, and you have now found yourself unable to change the consequences of speaking up. It has happened to me, and, ultimately, it ended my military career.”

The Acting CM seemed to understand what was going on with the team, but he also acknowledged that there was nothing I could do to change the circumstances. Everything had been set in motion, and I was at the point of no return. Spookily, he then told me that there was a reason behind everything happening the way they had that morning. While the reasons for those events might not yet be clear, eventually they would reveal themselves to me, he said. It was a weird conversation. I never saw him again after that meeting.

Everything happens for a reason.

Back at the team house, Horse and Eagle were downstairs in the lounge room. Bee and I went up to our room to talk through everything that had happened that morning. She had been pulled from the BIAP team, with Wolf assigned in her place.

That was when Horse appeared, looking ashen-faced. “The team has been hit,” he said. “The team was stationary on Route Irish when they were hit from the side by insurgents. Camel was shot in the head and died instantly. Tomahawk was hit in the femoral artery and bled to death. Ronin is fighting for his life. It could go either way.”

I ran downstairs to the team operations room to see what the vehicle configuration for the mission was and who was sitting where. There were three vehicles on the mission. Camel was driving the rear vehicle and Tomahawk was the rear gunner. Ghost was in there with them. How was it that they’d been killed, yet Ghost was okay? Ronin was in the first vehicle. What about Spitfire and Wolf, who were in there with him? What about Dr Evil and Baloo? There had been no mention of them. Were they okay?

Camel and Tomahawk were dead. Ronin could go either way.

Bee, Horse, Eagle and I gathered close together for moral support. We’d finally been hit. What the fuck had happened out there? Jeep was a mess. He couldn’t think; he couldn’t act. His eyes were red raw from crying and instantly I felt sorry for him; I knew he was hurting.

We went back to our rooms to await further reports. We analysed and reanalysed exactly how we thought the team must have been hit. What went on out there? Bee and I cried together. We cried for our fallen mates and we cried for Ronin, who was still fighting for his life.

I had only just told him that I had so many photos of the two of us, with me draped around his neck, that I was sure people would think we were a couple. But he was my mate. He was my friend. He was my colleague.
Hold on, Ronin.

Camel was gone. He was only with us for a short time. He was part of the ‘in crowd’, just as I had been, but was beginning to see through the leaders’ façade. He had already expressed his doubt about returning for another rotation, but now he was dead. His wife would be devastated. I cried for him.

I cried for Tomahawk. I walked into his room to see his sacred items lined up on his bed. He had known his fate. He’d prepared himself for death and made sure his personal effects were in order. The realisation hit me hard. Why hadn’t I picked up on that when he’d said goodbye to me? I was saddened by his death, but also knew that he would move off into the afterlife with courage and pride. He had lived like a warrior and then died a warrior’s death.

More news came in. Ronin was being airlifted to Camp Victory and the military medics were trying to save his life. Ghost had been hit in the arse and was also going to get treatment at Camp Victory. He had tried to save Tomahawk out on the road, but had failed. That was all we knew so far. I couldn’t feel the pain of my burn. I couldn’t feel anything. I was numb. We all were.

As the day progressed, more reports kept filtering back to us. Ghost was firing his MP5 around prior to the attack. A moving vehicle hit them. All sorts of snippets of information were being fed to us, but nothing could be confirmed until the team came home.

I rang Bruce at work, back in Australia. I had to tell him I was okay. I needed him to tell Kane that Mummy was not coming home today but that she was okay. I told Bruce that my team had been hit, and that due to a strange set of circumstances, I had avoided being involved in it. I couldn’t tell him any details about the incident, but warned him to be prepared for the ensuing media reports.

My family thought I was going to be travelling along Route Irish that day. If they heard that an Aussie contractor from my company had been killed on the way to the airport, they would have freaked out. It was bad enough getting the ‘when are you going to finish that type of work?’ speech from my mum each time I spoke to her. Many contractors got that same speech from their parents each time they returned home from Iraq, but there was no answer to it. You finish when you’re ready to finish. You can’t put a date on it.

Jeep called us all into the lounge room. He had news. I could tell it was bad. We sat down on the chairs, then he broke it to us. Ronin had died. The medics had worked furiously on him at the hospital and he’d fought hard till the bitter end. He had lost too much blood. Bee and I hugged each other. He had been hit in the femoral artery. He held on as long as he could, but it was too much in the end.

My fallen mates. I was determined to find out what had happened. Was it bad luck or poor planning? Who had been in charge of the mission? I needed answers. We all needed answers. The families needed answers. And, by God, I was going to get them.

It was late afternoon when the team finally arrived back. It was then that Wolf showed us his videotaped version of the events, and talked us through what had happened. I sat in shocked silence as I watched the video and heard what had gone on during that trip. I sat with Wolf and watched the video over and over again. It was disturbing. As Wolf retold what happened, and had it supported by the other members of the team, I realised my worst fears had come true: leadership deficiencies had finally got my mates killed.

GHOST HAD BEEN
in charge of the mission. Ghost the medic was in charge of the security operation. Ghost the CAT leader was in charge of the BIAP trip. As the leader, he was responsible for the team members’ lives, and ultimately their deaths.

The team had headed out late that morning for Baghdad airport. They didn’t need to drop me off anymore, but they still had to pick up a client and incoming team members. The first vehicle in the team carried Wolf, Ronin and Spitfire. Wolf was assigned as the driver of the soft-skinned BMW, Ronin the vehicle commander and Spitfire the rear shooter. The next vehicle in the packet was the armoured Mercedes (or client vehicle), driven by Baloo and commanded by Dr Evil. The third vehicle was the soft-skinned BMW (or CAT vehicle). Camel was tasked as the driver, Tomahawk the rear gunner, and the medic and mission commander was Ghost.

On a good day, when traffic was flowing steadily, it could take about ten minutes to get from one end of Route Irish to the other. On a bad day, when traffic had slowed down due to army convoys on the road, it could take twenty-odd minutes to drive down. It is not a long road, but it is a dangerous one.

The team set out along Route Irish, just as they had many times before. They passed through each one of its ‘RV’ points, until they were stopped by the ‘Big Army’ (AKA the US military). An army contingent was ahead of the group and motioning for all vehicles on the road to stop in their tracks and not move any closer. This gesture was generally communicated by their pointing many machine guns in your direction. The US military was halting traffic so soldiers could investigate a suspected IED in the area. Clearance of IEDs by the military takes time. It is not a fast process. They need to ensure the safety of their own soldiers first, and then take precautions to clear the area of the IED threat. Our orders always stated that in situations such as these, the team would return to the Green Zone to wait for the road to be cleared.

As the team approached the US military on Route Irish, Ghost told them to slow down and then stop their vehicles. If you drive towards the military in any sort of unusual way, especially when you are operating in ‘low profile’ mode, you’re likely to get shot at. Eight minutes into the trip, the team stopped the vehicles on the road. Traffic began to creep up on them, hemming them in. It was then that Ghost decided that the team was no longer going to stay low profile. He wanted to remain separate from the rest of the traffic.

He blew their cover by proceeding to fire his MP5 at the approaching traffic. An MP5 is great for using in buildings and other confined spaces because of the range and velocity of the weapon. In open environments, such as out on Route Irish, the M-4 rifle, the Austeyr and even an AK-47 are far better weapons to use. They can fire out to greater distances; they have a greater impact on the target area and are far more accurate. The MP5 is designed to accurately fire out to 25 metres; at best it could effectively hit a target at 50 metres. You’d be hard pressed to hit anything at 100, let alone 200 metres.

Impractical or otherwise, that MP5 held a special place in Ghost’s heart. It was short barrelled so it was easier for him to handle in the vehicle. He didn’t have to worry about an M-4, with its long, cumbersome barrel. He had pimped his MP5 with a rail system, optical sight and all sorts of attachments. It was useless on Route Irish, but it looked cool.

Ghost used his MP5 to warn off nearby vehicles. All traffic halted immediately. Nine and a half minutes into the trip, and all three cars had become identifiable as part of a Western security team. Now all the team members were sitting ducks. They were left vulnerable and exposed as they sat on the road, waiting for the IED to be cleared. And there they continued to sit. As time went by, cars again began to creep closer to them. Ghost fired more warning shots.

Tick-tock, another sixteen minutes went by. A white sedan from in front of the team started to cross the median strip to turn around and go back the other way. Three more minutes went by. It was at this stage that Ghost considered driving over the median strip to go around the Big Army. He considered it, but did nothing. Instead, two minutes later, Ghost got out of his vehicle to fire more shots at another nearby car. What he didn’t realise was that his ‘commander phone’ had fallen out of his pocket, landing on the ground. After dealing with the Iraqi driver, he got back into his vehicle to await route clearance.

Then more vehicles from in front of the team started turning around and crossing the median strip. With the vehicles in front leaving the area, the team inched their vehicles forwards. They didn’t get very far before they came to a sudden stop, as they had moved too close to the US military. There they sat: a total of twenty-five minutes remaining stationary on one of the world’s most dangerous roads.

It was at this point that Ghost noticed that he’d lost his mobile phone. Slowly the realisation set in that it must have fallen out when he fired his warning shots at the other cars. After thinking about his predicament for a moment, he decided they should turn around and go back for it. He was too late. They had been exposed out on the road for too long. A loud
crack
whipped through the air and thundered deep into their car.

Immediately, the vehicle was bombarded with bullets. Camel was shot in the thigh and head, and died instantly. Tomahawk returned fire with his weapon, but was ineffective due to being mortally wounded in the initial volley of enemy fire. He valiantly tried to evacuate the vehicle under fire, but he didn’t stand a chance. The enemy bullets penetrated the soft-skinned vehicle like hungry coyotes rushing in for the kill. Tomahawk slumped in his seat, and was slowly bleeding to death.

Ghost took a round to his arse, grabbed his MP5 and started firing it in the direction of the insurgents. Luckily, he managed to avoid being fatally shot. He jumped out of his vehicle, and ran around to check on Camel. He was dead. Tomahawk was still breathing, so Ghost grabbed his medical kit and began to work on him.

At the same time, the advance vehicle was also being hit. The enemy bullets sliced through the soft-skinned vehicle. Ronin was hit. Spitfire and Ronin returned fire, aiming their rounds in the direction of the ‘suspect vehicle’. Wolf tried to start the car, but it wouldn’t move. Being a manual vehicle, it had been placed in neutral gear while it became stationary. Wolf had ridden the clutch for the first fifteen minutes of waiting, but his leg cramped up after such a considerable time. He placed it into neutral, expecting to remain stationary for at least another hour, as they had during previous operations under Ghost’s leadership.

After realising the vehicle was possibly disabled, the advance team reverted back to their actions on ‘disabled vehicle’. They needed to get out and withdraw to a safe position. Being the closest to the ‘safe’ side of the vehicle, Wolf exited first, while Ronin and Spitfire continued to return fire. When in position, Wolf returned fire, and the other two also began to exit the vehicle. Ronin fired all his rounds, reloaded, and then fired again. He struggled heroically to pull his injured body from out of the car. He then took up a fire position and kept shooting until he eventually passed out.

When Spitfire exited the vehicle, Wolf withdrew to another fire position, and returned fire. He called for Spitfire to follow, but the enemy fire had died down. Meanwhile, Baloo and Dr Evil had been returning fire and attempting to move their vehicle forwards to provide additional cover to the advance team. The armoured vehicle was hit several times, with rounds almost penetrating Dr Evil’s door. The car eventually moved forwards, and they rushed out to assist the team. Spitfire tended to Ronin, his best mate, and furiously tried to save his life.

It was a futile effort. It was too late. The damage had been done. Tomahawk, Camel and Ronin passed away on 20 April 2005.

My mates were gone and there was nothing I could do. The moment was unreal to me. Do you know how sometimes you just wait for the time when you can say, “I told you so?” Well, that time had arrived, and I couldn’t do it. I was sick with rage and resentment, but I couldn’t say it. I didn’t have to say it. Everyone already knew it.

When the team returned later that day, we were all told that nobody was at fault. We were told that no one was to blame, except for the insurgents. They were right. The insurgents killed my friends. They were men with no honour, no respect and no value for life. They killed because they wanted to. It didn’t matter if their victims were Western or Arabs. They killed their own people as often as they did foreigners. For what? They didn’t fight for freedom, honour, equality and everything else I have come to enjoy in my life. Instead, they fought for power, money and control.

Insurgents were to blame for the deaths of my mates, but the team’s safety was the responsibility of my leaders and my company. That failure has left me bitter and angry to this day. Poor planning, poor leadership, poor tactics, poor judgment and poor capabilities were in evidence throughout my time on the team. As a security team, we were supposed to avoid risk, and run our operations as safely as possible. It was blatantly obvious this was not happening, and finally it led to the deaths of my colleagues. Conducting unnecessarily risky operations didn’t make you ‘tough’. It made you stupid.

Poor Baloo admitted to me that his car was in neutral, and that was why he couldn’t move the armoured vehicle in the initial volley of fire. I told him it wasn’t his fault. Team vehicle training would have addressed that problem. Luckily, he was in an automatic transmission car, so he was able to remedy the problem quickly despite his vehicle also suffering from ‘catastrophic’ engine failure. Trained close protection operatives are taught that automatic transmission cars are the best vehicles to use on missions because if you are attacked, the stress and surprise of the incident is generally going to make you stall your car. Additionally, when stationary, you are taught to leave the vehicle in gear and keep your foot on the brake. That way, when you are attacked, your instinct will be to step on the accelerator and get yourself out of the line of fire. Baloo got lucky, but Wolf didn’t have a hope in hell. Even if his handbrake had not been on when they were hit, I’m sure he would have stalled the manual transmission car, and still ended up in the same position.

The company put on a final hurrah for Tomahawk, Camel and Ronin that night. They supplied alcohol and food. It was held at the team house, under the Christmas fairy lights. And then I drank. I drank, and I cried, and I hugged my teammates. Before I knew it, Horse was holding my head out of bucket as I spewed. I cried each time I vomited into the bucket. I was angry with all the leaders, and how they had contributed to what had happened that day. I was also angry at myself for not being able to do a dammed thing about it.

My instincts about the team leaders had served me well. Thank God I had refused Red Zone missions with my team. Thank God I had awkwardly spilt boiling water down the front of me that morning. If I hadn’t been so clumsy, I would have been on that mission. I could have been killed. Even worse, I could have been stuck in the middle of the firefight, without a weapon, watching my mates die. I vowed never to forget what those leaders had done.

I couldn’t wait to leave the country. A few days later I caught a lift back with another team. They gave me body armour, a helmet, webbing and a rifle. I got onto the aircraft and slept all the way back home.

When I saw Kane, I hugged him with all my might. I needed my little boy to help bring me back to the real world. He was my sanity and my reality check. I pushed the pain of what had happened way back into the recesses of my mind, and focused completely on him. It was time to be a mum and let the warrior woman sleep.