The Bremer Detail by John M. Del Vecchio Frank Gallagher Page A
Authors: John M. Del Vecchio Frank Gallagher
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minutes at the metal detectors. We tried to make sure no one ever had more than one office shift each day so everyone was as fresh as possible. When the ambassador went to the chow hall, we would send a few guys down ahead of time to get him a table and try to give him some space. Ambassador Bremer, however, would shake hands with everyone and pose for pictures with whoever asked (including the non-Americans). With daily intel reports indicating the kitchen staff, the barbers, the groundskeepers, and many others were potential assassins, my guys were in a constant state of high alert. And this was INSIDE the Green Zone.
The ambassador also kept an extremely heavy schedule of meetings outside the Green Zone. Each mission required the advance team to head out an hour or so before the detail team to run the routes and establish security around the venue. Then the detail team would take the ambassador to the event. Then we would head back to the palace and resume security at the office while we waited for the next mission. This happened anywhere from once to five or six times a day, each and every day for the entire time we provided his protection.
Around 1900 each day, I would ask Bremer what time he wanted to go back to the villa. The answer varied from 2100 to 2300 And this was only if a member of the governance team had not barged in on him at the last second to talk about the latest crisis du jour. The governance team was composed of the Americans and Iraqis who were trying to design and implement a new Iraqi government. They had a very difficult job. Every day there was a new problem; every evening the ambassador was updated on wrinkles in yesterday’s plan. Oftentimes he would ask for a 2100 departure only to be trapped in his office until midnight. The detail team staged thirty minutes before his requested departure time. Sometimes it was three hours or more before he actually loaded up in the car and we took him home. The boss was a machine. Upon arrival at the villa he would usually tell me to be there at 0630 again the next day. The detail would then head back to their trailers after securing their gear and weapons. Five and a half hours later we were back to work.
About a week after landing, the team was able to move into their trailers from the makeshift barracks created from the small ballroom Saddam had in the palace. Of course this was only accomplished because Colonel Dennis Sabol (USMC—assigned to Ambassador Bremer’s staff) put priority on the Blackwater guys getting housing before a few “less essential” people who were working there. Colonel Sabol was a good man who more than once helped me navigate through some potentially murky situations. You have to love the Marine Corps brotherhood.
The guys moved into a trailer park, and essentially had an entire block to themselves. This quickly became known as Blackwater Boulevard. Our mission had morphed from what we had anticipated. We had been promised armored vehicles and had none; we had not been told about the villa detail; we did not know Ambassador Bremer never rested and never took more than four hours off. The big boy rules I had inherited from Bird became the norm. I was not going to tell the guys they could not enjoy a cold beer at the end of an eighteen-hour day. My only rule was if you showed up drunk or could not function at 100 percent the next day, you would be sent home.
Being true type A personalities, the end of the day get-togethers began to draw quite a crowd. When a group of alpha males congregate there is no limit on where the conversation may head. And we were quite a diverse collection of former Rangers, SEALs, Recon Marines, Special Forces, French Foreign Legion, SWAT cops, regular navy, regular army, and cops. The ball busting could reach the hysterical stage in seconds. Nothing was off-limits—interservice rivalries, country boy vs. city boy, North vs. South, football vs. baseball, Army vs. Navy vs. Marines vs. Air
The ambassador also kept an extremely heavy schedule of meetings outside the Green Zone. Each mission required the advance team to head out an hour or so before the detail team to run the routes and establish security around the venue. Then the detail team would take the ambassador to the event. Then we would head back to the palace and resume security at the office while we waited for the next mission. This happened anywhere from once to five or six times a day, each and every day for the entire time we provided his protection.
Around 1900 each day, I would ask Bremer what time he wanted to go back to the villa. The answer varied from 2100 to 2300 And this was only if a member of the governance team had not barged in on him at the last second to talk about the latest crisis du jour. The governance team was composed of the Americans and Iraqis who were trying to design and implement a new Iraqi government. They had a very difficult job. Every day there was a new problem; every evening the ambassador was updated on wrinkles in yesterday’s plan. Oftentimes he would ask for a 2100 departure only to be trapped in his office until midnight. The detail team staged thirty minutes before his requested departure time. Sometimes it was three hours or more before he actually loaded up in the car and we took him home. The boss was a machine. Upon arrival at the villa he would usually tell me to be there at 0630 again the next day. The detail would then head back to their trailers after securing their gear and weapons. Five and a half hours later we were back to work.
About a week after landing, the team was able to move into their trailers from the makeshift barracks created from the small ballroom Saddam had in the palace. Of course this was only accomplished because Colonel Dennis Sabol (USMC—assigned to Ambassador Bremer’s staff) put priority on the Blackwater guys getting housing before a few “less essential” people who were working there. Colonel Sabol was a good man who more than once helped me navigate through some potentially murky situations. You have to love the Marine Corps brotherhood.
The guys moved into a trailer park, and essentially had an entire block to themselves. This quickly became known as Blackwater Boulevard. Our mission had morphed from what we had anticipated. We had been promised armored vehicles and had none; we had not been told about the villa detail; we did not know Ambassador Bremer never rested and never took more than four hours off. The big boy rules I had inherited from Bird became the norm. I was not going to tell the guys they could not enjoy a cold beer at the end of an eighteen-hour day. My only rule was if you showed up drunk or could not function at 100 percent the next day, you would be sent home.
Being true type A personalities, the end of the day get-togethers began to draw quite a crowd. When a group of alpha males congregate there is no limit on where the conversation may head. And we were quite a diverse collection of former Rangers, SEALs, Recon Marines, Special Forces, French Foreign Legion, SWAT cops, regular navy, regular army, and cops. The ball busting could reach the hysterical stage in seconds. Nothing was off-limits—interservice rivalries, country boy vs. city boy, North vs. South, football vs. baseball, Army vs. Navy vs. Marines vs. Air
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