Welcome to Blackwater

Blackwater had a mission – protect diplomats no matter the cost. We weren’t paid for what we did – drink beer at the pool and surf for chicks on MySpace – but rather for what we may have to do; give our life for a US diplomat we never met and had no emotional connection to. We only cared about getting paid and our Blackwater brothers. It was an odd paradigm between mercenary and patriot. At $550 a day, it was worth the risk.  

Today we’re going to a ministry building via the elevated highway on Baghdad, Iraq. We exit the Green Zone and take a right onto the bridge to cross the river. I’m the gunner behind Jacob who’s driving. Traffic’s stalled. 

​ The bridge connects the Green Zone to the traffic circle made famous for its statue of Saddam Hussein which was toppled by US forces in 2003. You remember it. A soldier put an American flag over his face as a crane pulled it down. It’s dragged through the streets as locals hit it with shoes. This is a symbol of disrespect in Arab culture. It’s the definitive sign Iraqis are welcoming us as liberators and not filthy infidel invaders. Spot on assessment, Secretary Rumsfeld. 

​Traffic’s backed up across both lanes. We don’t have time for this. A stopped Suburban motorcade is a tasty target. My window’s down and my head’s sticking out. 

Team leader: Morgan. Ray. Go fuck off those cars. We’re crossing traffic. 

Me: On it. 

​I get out excited and scared. This is the first time I’ve walked the streets outside the wire. I was told by a high school teacher extreme fear causes the human body to pump adrenaline into the endocrine system – elevating the heart rate. This causes hyperawareness.

​I’m standing on a bridge in an active combat zone. This is the definition of fear. Nary an erection in my pants – not even a semi-chub. It’s sad. 

​I kick the Hummer door shut like a Bad-Ass (BAMF) and walk toward the car blocking us. To allow the convoy to move left and drive into on-coming traffic, this car needs to move right a couple feet. I walk to the driver, tap his door and say, “Move your car to the right.” He looks at me indignant and lifts his hands making the gesture of, “Where do you expect me to go?” 

Yes. I see the problem – no room to maneuver. I go to the car in front of him, put my hand through his open window, and tap his shoulder. He’s startled.  I point to the right. He gives me the same gesture as the prior driver. I’m fucking over this. I push his steering wheel to the right and yell “Move your fucking car”. 

His car lurches to the right. I lift my rifle, point it at the driver of the first car, and flick my left hand showing him where to go. I’m stunned at how nonchalant he seems having a rifle pointed at him but we’re crossing the language barrier! He moves right. 

​Ray and I walk down the center of on-coming traffic, rifles up. The Hummer follows. Each driver yields and the one behind him floors like Allah opened up traffic. Then he sees us, full body armor, our M-4’s pointed at his chest, and yields. 

Vehicle after vehicle does this. Each car we hit is followed by one speeding up.  I get tiny adrenaline spikes with each one. I’m combat impotent. Maybe I’ve been here too long? 

​The Hummer gets to the sidewalk and climbs up – one tire on the road and one on the sidewalk. I hop in and go back to watching out my window. We drive this way – against the flow of traffic on the sidewalk – to the traffic circle. 

At the circle we cross back to our normal lane and head to a tunnel which I’ve affectionately named The Tunnel of Love. Me and everyone else. I’m so original. We hold outside the tunnel until it clears – holding traffic behind us. A Blackwater little bird helicopter, with its instinctive blue painting with a white stripe, flies to the opposite side to tell us it’s open. 

I put my windows up, the top gunner sits down, and we drive like crazy through it.  The Tunnel of Love is known to have IED’s hung from the walls to blow through an open window or hit a top gunner. We emerge from the other side, I drop my window, the gunner stands, and we hold. We’re the proverbial canary in a coal mine – sent in first to take the explosion.

Steve: Vehicle one is through. Come on. 

Team lead: Roger. 

We roll forward as the convoy blasts through the tunnel. Once the follow vehicle is in, we gun it so they don’t have to break stride. We’re a well-oiled machine.

We drive under a bridge, hang a left, and ascend to the elevated highway. This is always fun. Jacob guns it. We’re driving sixty mph with my hair blowing in the wind. Why do dogs like this? 

Jacob honks the airhorn to move a car. The top gunner throws a water bottle at it. We’re being ignored so Jacob gives him a gentle nudge with the bumper. He moves right and we pass. 

We approach a hatchback refusing to merge. This is a special treat. Jacob pushes our front bumper into his hatchback door. This causes the window to flex and burst. It’s like a movie. Glass flies in the air, hits the top gunner, and falls through the roof onto my shoulder. The gunner’s pissed and gets on the radio. 

Gunner: Stop hitting hatchbacks. 

Jacob: Can’t help it. 

Gunner: Every fucking time I get hit in the face with glass. 

We target hatchbacks because they provide instant gratification. On to the next victim. 

We arrive, drop our principals, and wait because it’s a short meeting – no more than forty-five minutes –we’ll stick around to escort them back. An hour later, the helicopter pilots are bored and begin to put on an airshow. 

One touches down on the wall of the elevated highway then lifts off. The second bird puts only the front skids on the wall. We cheer. Now it’s a competition. The first bird touches the top of a street light with a single skid. We cheer louder. The pilots have skills. I’m impressed. 

After a thirty-minute show, we head back. Hell yes. Elevated highway time. We hang a hard right and ascend via an onramp. A red sedan’s hauling ass. The top gunner’s yelling at him “Imshi! Imshi! Imshi”. 

The horn blares as he approaches at eighty mph. We begin to merge. This dude isn’t slowing down. He may be a VBIED. He may be a shitty driver. 

My right thumb moves the safety selector to Fire. I drop a couple rounds in front of the car. I watch them puff as they impact concrete. My rifle moves higher and I keep shooting. I’m alone in the world. Bullets impact the grill. I’m not looking down my sights but I know where each round will impact before I squeeze the trigger. 

Impacts in the engine. The car moves in slow motion. I’m seeing in slow motion but reacting in real time. Bullet in the hood. It’s silent. I can’t hear a thing. I can’t hear the deafening sound of the Hummer engine or the wind. I feel Top Gunner slap my shoulder – jolting me to full motion. The vehicle moves from my view and disappears. 

Adrenaline’s coursing through my veins. I drop the magazine and load another. I’m back in the fight – combat. 

I find Top Gunner when we park and ask why he slapped my shoulder. I’m afraid he saw something I didn’t – I made a mistake. I don’t want to know if it was a bad shoot but I have to ask. 

Me: Why’d you slap my shoulder? 

Top Gunner: When?

Me: When I lit up the red car.

Top Gunner: Oh. I shot it too. I was telling you good shooting. 

Me: That car scared the shit out of me man. He was hauling ass. 

Top Gunner: Dumb fucker. 

George: How many rounds did you shoot? 

Me: Five. Maybe seven. 

George: Do you know where they hit? 

Me: Most of them. The Hummer lurched hard left so I may have put a couple on the ground next to the car.

I walk with George to drop our kit. He’s the greatest. 

Morgan Lerette worked for Blackwater for 18 months, from 2004 to 2005. Upon his return to the United States, he completed his undergraduate degree at Northern Arizona University and commissioned as a U.S. Army intelligence officer. From 2009 to 2010, Lerette deployed back to Iraq. He left the Army as a captain, moved to Boston, and attended The Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy at Tufts University. He received a master of international business degree in international banking and finance. Lerette wrote the just-released book Welcome to Blackwater. The book is published by a veteran’s nonprofit, Onward Press, and all sales contribute to its mission to help veterans get their stories published.