Warrior Brothers (28 page)

The windswept station appeared devoid of life. Pieces of debris and dust flicked across the ground like a scene from a western. I positioned our two vehicles 100 metres from the bowsers before moving in on foot. Pottie remained with the vehicles, ready to provide fire support. He was always ready to lend a hand.

The station looked deserted but we needed fuel so I had to try. I stuck my head into a room where there were about a dozen Iraqi men watching television. They were startled yet venomously excited to see a lone Westerner. They looked back and forth at each other as if to see who would make a move on the idiot who dared to enter their domain.

I sensed the danger and immediately flicked my safety catch onto fire. The distinctive sound of an AK-47 being made ready is something these guys would have heard many times before. I was signalling that, despite the fact that I was severely outnumbered, any conflict wouldn't be a one-sided affair.

I told the men in the room that I needed fuel, but they just snarled and shook their heads. One man began hitting his fist against his chest. Half-expecting to see froth at the corners of his mouth, I nodded my head in return and told them to start up their generator. After a grudging pause they did, with obvious reluctance but also with a tinge of curiosity.

Seven men followed me out the front while the others disappeared out the back. Pottie had already positioned himself at the bowsers. I told him to get ready, as things could soon turn nasty. He ran his eye over the men surrounding me and said in a level voice that they would need more than seven to get the job done.

His bravado was appreciated, but I made sure to tell him there were at least five more Iraqis out the back. Their faces occasionally peered around a brick wall. I briefed our drivers to bring their vehicles into the station one at a time and, as soon as they were refuelled, to quickly back out the way they had come.

The Iraqi men again pounded on their chests, chanting ‘Ali Baba' and claiming themselves to be thieves. They began yelling out to other friends in front of a shop some 200 metres away. Pottie and I weren't intimidated. Sure, they would have loved to steal our vehicles and our lives, but if they were truly confident, they would have just done it. Several men pressed their faces against the windows of our cars in order to have a good look inside. Things were swiftly getting out of hand. I maintained my distance while also keeping my weapon fixed on a thickset man who appeared to be the natural leader of the group.

Our team medic again proved that he was totally unsuitable for this line of work. After refuelling, he failed to follow my simple instructions. Instead of immediately reversing his vehicle, he parked adjacent to the building. This was a highly compromised position, and he could easily have been shot by anyone inside. Several men approached his vehicle and he just turned away from them, visibly shaking with fear. They were now aware of our weak link.

I got on the radio and told him to drive his vehicle out of the station. He appeared to struggle even with these basic commands. I tried to remain calm and approached the medic, firmly directing him where to go. Finally, he obeyed.

With both vehicles topped up, I paid for the fuel while Pottie covered the transaction. We then covered each other back to our vehicles. The men in the service station began yelling and whistling to their friends up at the shop as we departed.
Too late, fellas
, I thought, as we gathered momentum and thundered along the highway.

It appeared that we had caught these men off-guard. They obviously weren't confident that they could overpower our team without sustaining casualties. As we drove, I made a note that this station was only to be used to source fuel in an absolute emergency.

Near the intersection that led into Fallujah, Pottie called me over the radio: ‘There are three suspect black BMWs closing in on our vehicle, over.' I peered over my shoulder and observed the vehicles buzzing around the rear of Pottie's car like a swarm of killer bees.

Immediately I ordered a ‘heavy rear drill', where both of our team vehicles were positioned side-by-side while Pottie and I took up firing positions and aimed our rifles at the aggressive-looking occupants. The suspect cars soon faded away, and after a kilometre we reverted to our normal formation.

Unfortunately, it wasn't long before they tried it on again. The first encounter could well have been a rehearsal for an attack. We had no chance of outrunning these highly engineered machines, so we fell back into the heavy rear drill and were a little more aggressive. Once again the suspect vehicles retreated. I told Pottie that the next time they approached we'd slow down and signal the BMWs to pass. It would be easier to control the situation from the rear.

Almost on cue, they appeared again. We slowed to 60 kmh and signalled to them to pass. Each vehicle was loaded with six men, who all looked to be in their twenties and thirties. They faced us with strong stares as they slowly passed. I
locked eyes with a man who was seated in the back of the lead car. His eyes, filled with hate, searched for complacency, a weakness he could exploit. He and his companions would certainly have seen that our rifles were pulled firmly into our shoulders, our safety catches were disengaged and our muzzles were pointed directly at them.

If these men were going to attack, then they would have to make it quick; once it started, I planned to take out the immediate threat, followed by the driver. If I could shoot the driver in the head then his foot would fall flat against the accelerator, causing the vehicle to lurch forward and probably to veer sharply to the left or right. If this wasn't corrected in a second then they would be off the road and upside down. But there were 18 of them and just four of us. There's no place for arrogance in our line of work. If given the opportunity, these guys would be merciless.

My eyes told this man that any act of aggression would most likely result in him and several of his friends being killed. My years in the Regiment, and the tens of thousands of rounds I had fired over that time, gave me the confidence that I could outclass these guys. You know if you have the drop on someone. They know it too. It would be a tall order to slay our entire team without suffering casualties. After several kilometres of high-stakes chicken, they finally pulled off the road and headed back towards Fallujah.

Other security contractors were not so successful; four men would be slain in Fallujah shortly after this event.

That evening we returned to the Palestine Hotel and were informed that, with the assessment phase of the project now complete, the following morning we were to return to Shaibah Log Camp in the south of Iraq. This six-hour drive, however, proved a little more interesting.

On the morning of departure we learned that Route
Tampa, the primary road leading south, was closed indefinitely. The insurgents had detonated a vehicle bomb and destroyed a major bridge, sending tonnes of concrete and metal into the water. This was frustrating, as not only was the alternate route through Al Khut considered more dangerous, but I didn't have suitable mapping of south-eastern Baghdad. I had a tourist map of central Baghdad, and then it was back to my trusty 1:500,000 country map. A picture of my arse would have been just as useful.

We located the highway leading to Al Khut and some 20 kilometres later came to a prominent roundabout. One of the roads led south, the other headed due east. Neither road appeared more prominent than the other, so considering Al Khut was in the south, we took the southern road. Big mistake.

After several kilometres the road narrowed and led through a series of highly populated villages. We continued through another roundabout before passing a mosque where at least 40 men were assembled. As we drove past the crowd, they appeared to become excited and several men began to run towards the mosque. Perhaps they knew something that we didn't know.

The road we were travelling on soon came to a dead end.
Fuck
, I thought. They were excited because they knew that we'd have to come back. We'd effectively ambushed ourselves.

Every second became vital. We headed back along the road and saw dozens of men throwing 44-gallon drums and large blocks of concrete onto the road. We had been blocked in. I ordered the vehicles to stop and reverse.

On the other side of the median strip was another lane that was still clear. The medic in Pottie's car began to panic as he struggled to reverse his vehicle, all the while calling out, ‘We're gonna die, we're gonna die.' My driver performed well and we made it to the mosque just as several pieces of concrete landed
on the road. The crowd went wild and several men ran their fingers across their throats as we accelerated past.

My heart was pounding. I knew I'd fucked up. It had been my call on which road to take, and that had left us in this incredibly vulnerable position. But I also knew that now was not the time to reflect – it was the time to set things right.

As my vehicle entered the roundabout, a van halted immediately in front of us, causing us to screech to a halt. I removed my safety catch and placed my finger on the trigger. Although my heart was still thumping inside my chest, my rifle felt steady. I attempted to control my breathing. The rear door of the van was thrust open and I was expecting armed men to appear.

I began to take up the slack in my trigger when a young man jumped out of the van and slammed the door shut. He looked at me briefly before darting out of the way as the van moved on. Some men from the mosque were running towards the roundabout now, but we didn't hang around to see what they wanted. It was time to go.

The medic was really starting to lose it as we drove on, but Pottie, as always, remained a rock. ‘Hey, Keith,' he said, ‘I thought it was about time we found some action.'

I laughed and, in the lightened mood, ordered my driver to slow down and take it easy. Provided we didn't do anything silly, like run off the side of the road, we'd probably get away. As we drove past local villagers, those who recognised us as Western looked as shocked as our poor medic. But before they could react, we were gone.

Luckily, I had ruled my country map into one-mile increments so I was able to work out roughly where we were. I also realised that there was a dirt track some 17 kilometres further south that led back onto the Al Khut Highway. I informed the guys of my intentions and reminded them that when something went wrong it was essential to remain calm, or our problems could intensify rapidly. I maintained a constant
visual to confirm our precise location, and I estimated that it would take 20 minutes to make it back. I then located a series of powerlines ahead that led back to the highway and breathed a sigh of relief when I realised the track was open.

As we continued south, our bodies and minds were able to relax a little. It was still dangerous, but in comparison to where we had been it seemed relatively benign. We eventually reached Shaibah Log Camp and then continued on to Kuwait. I sacked the medic and was asked if I'd consider running the reconstruction phase of the project. I would be responsible for 23 security contractors, 12 Gurkha guards and 10 clients. Why not?