Eric Maddox: Mission: Black List #1

Something did. Later that evening, while he was still in the rack, a soldier came looking for him. “He’s asleep,” I told him. “What’s up?”

“They’re looking for an interrogator to go to Tikrit.”

My heart skipped a beat. “What’s going on?”

“They captured a bodyguard up there,” he explained. “Drunk off his ass, but he might know something.”

“So what do I need to do?”

“Are you cleared to go?” he asked skeptically.

“Yeah,” I replied. “I’m actually on standby for anything that comes up.”

“Pack enough for a couple of days,” he told me. “Grab your weapon. The chopper’s waiting.”

My lack of sleep over the last few days was beginning to catch up with me as we took the ninety-minute flight to Tikrit. But every time I started to doze off, I could feel myself slipping out of that metal mosquito and snapped back awake.

We finally set down on a small landing pad. Numb from the rotor vibrations and deep fatigue, I fumbled to unlatch myself from the tether. From out of the shadows a big, hulking guy with a handlebar mustache appeared and without waiting for an invitation, pulled me from the chopper.

“You the interrogator?” he asked.

I nodded and stumbled after him to a waiting Humvee. I assumed that I was in Tikrit, but had no way of knowing. I could barely make out the outlines of the military compound in the darkness and only later found out that I had landed at Camp Ironhorse, headquarters of the 4th Infantry Division, responsible for Tikrit and the northern section of the Sunni Triangle. After a few minutes we passed through a checkpoint and continued into the driveway of an imposing marble mansion.

I would learn a lot about Tikrit in the days that followed. As the hometown of Saddam Hussein, it was full of the palaces, estates, and farms of the ruling elite, mostly members of Saddam’s extended family and the allies of his clan. The mansion where we had arrived had actually been a vacation getaway for Saddam’s wife.

The place had a huge two-story front with a balcony that ran around its upper floor. I followed my guide through the wide front door and into the spacious reception hall, stacked high with crates of ammunition and an impressive array of weaponry. The only remnants of the former occupants were some sofas and sideboards and a few pictures of Saddam still hanging on the wall. We headed up a wide sweeping stairway to the second floor and down a long dim corridor and into a brightly lit room. A group of soldiers were gathered around a map, talking in low tones. It was only later that I realized I had walked into the midst of an Operations Order. These men were planning a mission.

Their intense concentration shifted from the map to me as we entered. The driver made the introductions, first to Jack, a major who was the commanding officer of the small elite task force headquartered at the mansion. They were, I knew, superbly trained and equipped and tasked with some of the most dangerous and difficult missions of the war. True to their reputation, as I would come to discover, they didn’t have much use for anyone who wasn’t part of their world. They were never rude or arrogant, but because they were the best of the best, they didn’t want to have to deal with anyone who wasn’t.

That attitude was summed up by the cool appraisal I got from Matt, the second in command. At six feet two inches and two hundred twenty pounds, with shoulders like bowling balls, Matt made an immediate impression. And the look he gave me that night made it clear he had no use for straphangers. In Airborne terminology, a straphanger is a paratrooper who just goes along for the ride, trying to log the required number of jumps. Until I could prove otherwise, I was a straphanger.

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asked, still looking me up and down.

I swallowed hard. I would have remembered meeting this dude, but maybe I’d pissed him off in a bar somewhere or, worse, hit on his girlfriend back in the States. “I don’t think so,” I muttered and tried to change the subject. “I was told you needed an interrogator.”

A third member of the team, a wiry redhead, stepped forward and introduced himself as Jeff. “We got a couple of detainees we think are Saddam bodyguards,” he explained in a deep Texas accent. “One of them is too drunk to talk but the other might actually know something.”

“I’m here to talk to anyone you want me to.”

“That’s good,” Jack cut in. “Because before you start, we’ve got something else we need you to do.”

“Anything.”

“We’re getting ready to go on a raid,” he explained, nodding at the map in front of them. “We’d like you to come along.”

It was close to midnight when Jeff, Jack, and Matt gave me a quick rundown on the raid. We would be following up a lead from a low-level source claiming that one of Saddam’s old bodyguards was in a farmhouse on the outskirts of town. He was supposed to be leaving that morning for Syria to meet Saddam. My job was to find out where that meeting would take place.

After the briefing, they sent me downstairs, where a half dozen other soldiers were methodically preparing for the mission. With zero idea what to take on a hit, I started rummaging through the baggage I had brought with me from Baghdad.

“Got everything you need?” Matt asked, coming up behind me.

“Should I, uh, take my rifle?” I must have looked as dumb as I felt.

“Yeah,” he replied dryly. “A weapon is a good idea.”

“And how about my helmet?”

“Always useful,” he agreed. Whatever impression he had of me upstairs, I wasn’t doing much to improve it. I decided not to ask any more questions.

Jeff arrived to introduce me to my interpreter, or “terp” as they’re called. His name was Jared, and he looked to me as if going on this raid was the last thing he wanted to be doing.

I’d already had some experience with terps back in Baghdad. They were mostly Iraqi-Americans who had been contracted by the military for their language skills. A lot of them had the attitude that they knew everything and the interrogator knew nothing. In my case, that was actually true. If you asked what they thought was a stupid question, they’d roll their eyes and start asking their own. If you got a rambling answer from a prisoner they’d tell you he didn’t know anything and leave it at that. They were definitely on our team, but, in most cases, that didn’t make working with them any easier.

Jared surely wasn’t interested in making things easier. It wasn’t until Jeff pulled me aside that I found out why. The terp was shipping out the next day, he told me. This would be his last mission.

“I appreciate your helping me out tonight, Jared,” I said as we sat together lacing our boots. “I’ve been down in Baghdad this whole time. What’s the target set here in Tikrit?” The “target set” was the known list of bad guys the team was looking for in Tikrit. I was determined to get as much information as I could, regardless of how foolish it made me look. And I must have looked pretty foolish, considering the fed-up expression on Jared’s face. He continued silently lacing his boots as I tried another approach. “I guess you’ve been here awhile,” I said. “Any tips for a newcomer?”

That caught his interest. Now I wasn’t just asking for information; I was asking for his opinion. “Focus on Saddam’s bodyguards,” he said while around us the preparations for the raid continued. “They are all relatives of Saddam and they are all from Tikrit.” He looked at me. “I have a list. Alphabetical. With all their sub-tribes. I write down if they are killed, captured, or unknown. Over two hundred names.”

“No shit. Can I see it?”