Dev Blog 9: Getting to Know Bax (EoE Excerpt Pt. 1)
When Jared Baxter first makes his introduction, he's desperate, alone, and in dire need of your help. He's seen -- and taken part in -- things that are almost beyond description over the past year-and-a-half. And now he's being hunted down because of what he knows and his plans to stall the inevitable.
However, even before he was recruited inside "the Operation" and all the craziness that followed, Bax had lived a pretty remarkable life. Back then, in an attempt to leave some sort of legacy for his family who had too often been left behind and in the dark, he was working on a memoir that summarized his military career.
A rough draft of that memoir is just one of several attachments Baxter includes in his first email to you, thinking that if you understand where he's coming from, you might be more likely to actually heed his warnings.
Over the next few days, we'll be running that memoir in parts here at EnginesofExtinction.com to allow you to get to know Bax just a little bit before things get real on Tuesday.
Attachment: Bax’s Memoir (Rough Draft)
The Terrorists’ Terrorist:
One Man’s Global War on Terror
By
Jared W. Baxter
I honestly cannot remember all the times I’ve fired my weapon in anger at another human being, nor can I recall every time a weapon has been fired at me. For most people, a single traumatic act of that magnitude would define the rest of their life. And here, I can’t even remember all of the occasions -- literally cannot remember -- even if you laid out the stack of government paperwork detailing each action.
Now, I could probably recall all of the countries I’ve visited to grab someone off the street or put someone in an early grave. But it would take some serious consideration and the aid of an atlas.
Nope, we’re not in Illinois anymore.
I grew up in Schaumburg. It’s one of the northwest suburbs of Chicago, kinda out by O’Hare. I was an only child and a pretty average student. Back then, I never really thought too hard about what I might want to be.
I guess when I was much younger, I thought it’d be pretty cool to become a paleontologist. What kid doesn’t love dinosaurs? But somewhere along the line that lost its appeal. It’s easy now to sit back and say a dozen years of university and grad school just to go dig in the dirt doesn’t exactly sound all that glamorous. But in reality, I just sort of lost focus. Even though I performed well on standardized tests, my grades weren’t exactly conducive to that particular pursuit. Eventually, joining the military became the plan... as tends to happen to kids who don’t have a plan, you know?
I had a mandatory sit down with the school’s guidance counselor to discuss my future. Neither of us seemed overly excited about the meeting. We were both just checking boxes and doing what we were told we had to.
“So, uhh... Jared...” You had to just love this guy’s commitment to improvisation. He didn’t even bother to review my name before I stepped into his office. Fair enough -- I can’t remember his now.
“Have you thought about what you might want to do next fall? Oakton Community College could be a consideration, and you could try to work up to a four ye...”
“Yeah, well, I’m gonna join the Army, I think. I, uhh...”
This wannabe comedian kind of raised his eyebrows and, fighting back his chuckling, said in his best Ted Knight, “Well, the world needs ditch diggers too.” I don’t think he was encouraging me to rekindle those paleontological dreams.
“I’d say the same thing about guidance counselors, but I’m not sure that’s actually the case.”
Every bit as unimpressed by my crack as I was with his, he audibled and tried to get serious -- or at least get through the appointment. “...Okay. The Army? Yes, that’s an option. Have you spoken with a recruiter?”
“No.”
“Well, you’re going to want to do that. Discuss some options. Don’t let the recruiter talk you into anything that’s not in your best interest. And with your grades, the military might not be a bad way to go. Think about what you might want to do. And not just in the Army, but what skills you can learn that can help you once you get out. And Jared?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever you do, don’t let anyone talk you into becoming a Ranger.”
He was actually the third or fourth person to express that same sentiment. And it was at that point that my interest was officially piqued. Remember, this was the mid-’90s. When someone said the word “Ranger,” I always assumed they were either talking about Nolan Ryan or Chuck Norris.
I’m embarrassed to say when the rest of the country was stunned to hear about what had happened in Mogadishu in ‘93, I was too caught up in my high school haze of sports, sportbikes, and sportier girls to even take notice that kids not much older than me were dying for their country, fighting a war I didn’t even realize existed.
I wasn’t looking to join the Army out of any great desire to serve my country, nor was I a big-time military buff. I just didn’t know what else to do. I was a pretty good athlete, and the thought of learning how to shoot and riding around in helicopters and planes for a few years sounded like it could be a pretty cool experience. That was about the extent of it.
I hadn’t contemplated the possibility of actually being thrown into a real-deal, life-and-death battle. At that point, in my head, the United States had fought in the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam, and Desert Storm. And that was it. And even though Desert Storm was all over CNN when I was in middle school, it was like what, a fucking four-day ground war? Once you took the Soviets out of the equation, I didn’t even know there was anyone left to fight. That applied to the good ole USA just as much as it did Rocky Balboa.
Anyway, the repeated advice to steer clear of the Rangers convinced me to actually do a little research. It was then that I learned about Iran, Panama, Grenada, and Somalia. Word was, even if the United States wasn’t at war, the 75th Ranger Regiment was. Put in a few years there, and you were going to see combat.
Fuck, man, I had no idea. Rather than scare me off or get me to heed those warnings, that fact actually pulled me in. I didn’t have a death wish or bloodlust or anything, but the thought you could actually test yourself that way -- legally -- and honorably? That was it. For the first time, I actually knew what I wanted to do. What I wanted to be.
And naturally, the next several years would turn out to be the quietest period in Ranger history since the modern battalions were formed. Regardless, I etched out a place for myself at 3rd Battalion. There wasn’t much to do at Ft. Benning, and some of the spit and shine discipline enforced at the Regiment during that era fucking grated on me. But I loved the work -- the real work, anyway -- and I loved the Regiment, and I was consistently inspired by my fellow Rangers.
It was during this period that I met Jennifer. I was back in the suburbs on leave. And I know this is like the lamest cliché -- something that only happens on TV, and bad TV at that -- but I actually met her in a grocery store. I didn’t have my vegetable aisle rap down, but fortunately I ran into her again a couple days later at a bar -- where people meet on TV and in real life.
Turns out she was witty, driven, educated, strong, beautiful... well out of my league, that’s for sure. And she wasn’t the least bit impressed by my choice of profession. But somehow I wore down her defenses just enough to get a number out of her. A number that actually worked.
From there, we kept in touch and I continued to etch away at those defenses. We saw each other whenever we could, and eventually I convinced her to move down from Chicago and get hitched. It wasn’t long after that that we had a little girl, Katelyn, and talked about building up our own little army from there.
My career was on the right track too. I came into the Regiment with a natural and healthy disrespect for authority. That’s just my personality. But in the Rangers, that outlook can prove unhealthy in a hurry. I managed to bite my lip just enough to get where I wanted to be, ultimately earning a coveted slot as a platoon sergeant in a rifle company. As far as I was concerned, I was in for the long haul. I was destined to do my twenty as a Ranger.
Of course, life changed for all of us -- all of us, no matter who you were or where you lived -- on September 11th, 2001. But for those of us in the United States Special Operations Command and our families, I think it’s fair to say it changed for us more than most.
Now I want to be careful how I say this. Because, believe me, we were devastated by what happened that day. Pissed off beyond description. But we were almost a little giddy at the same time. When those towers fell, we knew what that meant for us.
The way we saw it, 3rd Batt was like a professional football team stacked with first-round draft picks, but we only ever practiced, never actually played a game. Well, now kickoff was right around the corner. And we couldn’t be happier that these particular motherfuckers were the ones that were going to be on the receiving end of all that pent-up aggression and years of arduous training.
Just over a month after 9/11, a couple hundred 3/75 Rangers loaded up into four MC-130s for Operation Rhino. The Rangers weren’t just going to war, we were jumping right down al Qaeda’s throat, parachuting into Kandahar, Afghanistan.
That was my first combat jump. It’s hard to comprehend just how quickly time can pass. In some ways, that first op feels like it took place only twelve weeks ago, not twelve years ago. But in others, I am very far removed from that nervous and eager young Ranger, and even further displaced from that naïve high school senior whose choices had set me down this path.
Anyway, Operation Rhino turned out to be a dick tease; there was no one there to fight. No matter, there would be more than enough fighting to go around in the days, weeks, and years ahead.
And the 75th Ranger Regiment would more than prove itself time and time again. By now it’s been shown beyond a shadow of a doubt that if our great nation wants to point a small team of well-trained men at a target and see it absolutely obliterated, no one else can bring the hate like the Rangers. RLTW... Rangers Lead The-Mother-Fucking Way.
But as much as I loved my fellow Rangers, it wasn’t long after I got my first taste of combat that I knew I was destined to move on. Move up.
***
Every now and then, we’d hear whispers about what the “guys behind the fence” at Fort Bragg were up to. And occasionally, we even saw it firsthand. I knew if I hoped to have a shot at putting Usama bin Laden’s ugly horseface in my crosshairs, I was going to have to go over there to make it happen.
Doing my best to ignore any bouts of rationalism and pragmatism that I may have occasionally suffered from, I decided to try my luck at selection for CAG, aka Combat Applications Group, aka 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta.
Delta Force.
The Unit.
Believe me, I knew I was being wildly optimistic to even give it a shot. RIP (Ranger Indoctrination Program) sucked enough as it was. Something like 80% of my RIP class washed-out and never actually made it to Battalion. I think the numbers are similar for the guys trying to get into Army Special Forces.
Well, Delta invites the upper tier of those who not only became Rangers and Green Berets, but have already kicked ass there for years. And then you know what it does with them? It spits them back out at a rate of about nine outta every ten of those asskickers who dare to try. They pull in potential selectees from other units too -- hell, even from other services -- just hoping they can somehow find enough of the right breed of men to fill their ranks.
At selection, they dig deep into you -- your brain, your body, your heart, your guts -- to determine if you’re worthy of being trained up to the standard of the most elite combat unit in existence. And selection sucked. Suuuucked. But by some fluke of fate, I was that one in ten who made it through all the physical trials, the mental exhaustion, the psychological exams, and the IQ tests.
I still don’t know how it happened. I figured I just got lucky the first day. And then I got lucky again the next day. And the next. And all the following days for however many weeks it took until I finally got invited to OTC -- Operator Training Course.
***
OTC... That’s where they actually take the hardened vets who passed the selection course -- many already boasting more than a decade of special operations experience --and hone them into virtuosos in the surgical application of violence.
It’s really hard to describe, but I’ll do my best. Okay, how can I put this? Think of the Olympics. You see these teenage gymnasts with impossible balance and agility, performing all sort of crazy flips and twists, bounding across narrow beams and then sticking landings. Well, if you hadn’t ever seen that with your own two eyes, you probably wouldn’t believe the human form is actually capable of such feats.
It’s the same with anyone who manages to break through the accepted boundaries of performance to elevate their craft to another level. That includes classical musicians who flawlessly execute the most difficult and complex études to strongman competitors who carry one-thousand pound logs on their shoulders. Or how about that guy who set the world record by holding his breath underwater for more than twenty-two minutes? It’s a testament to what can be accomplished when you combine rare talent, rare training, and rare commitment.
Well, that’s exactly what the operators of the Unit are when it comes to things like jumping out of airplanes, crashing through doors, and neutralizing any threat they may encounter on the other side.
The Mary Lou Rettons of close-quarters combat? That’s not exactly the image I was hoping to formulate, but you get what I was going for.
OTC provides you with the tools and training necessary to perform at that level. It sets you down the path of truly mastering a wide range of dark arts and sciences. For example, Unit operators are almost universally off the charts in terms of combat marksmanship. And when it comes to executing free-flow close-quarters battle (CQB) techniques in a high-stress environment in unfamiliar surroundings, no one else compares. No one.
Making it through selection was just the start. If you couldn’t keep up in OTC, you got sent back to wherever you came from or wherever you were needed. It turned out that was no idle threat but a relatively common occurrence.
I didn’t lack confidence in my abilities, but I was still pretty surprised just how well OTC went for me. I felt like I truly discovered why I was put on this planet. And I thrived in the new “Big Boy Rules” environment. Whatever personality quirks I had that may have gotten in my way before made me an ideal fit for this sort of organization.
At the time, Delta was sectioned into three operational sabre squadrons: A, B, and C. And at the end of each OTC graduation, the squadrons alternated in calling dibs on the new recruits to bolster their ranks. It’s kind of like the counterterrorist version of the NFL Draft, minus round-the-clock ESPN coverage and Mel Kiper Jr.’s magnificent ‘do. Well, I was humbled to be the first-round draft pick of C Squadron and excited to get to work. And no, I didn’t get a baseball cap or a handshake from the Colonel, if that’s how you’re envisioning it.
Of course, as luck would have it, by the time I got sent back overseas as a full-fledged operator, Delta was no longer actively chasing after UBL. It was now 2003 and Bin Laden was... well, yesterday’s news is a bit extreme -- but the Unit had quickly become entrenched in the new war in Iraq. I was cool with that; that’s where the action was at the time and that’s precisely why we were there. So send me to the sandbox and let’s get down to business.
***
In those early days, we were the leading man-hunters in the AO (area of operations). As such, we were tasked with hunting down not just Saddam Hussein, but pretty much everyone and anyone directly related to him and his regime.
Some intel geeks came up with the idea of throwing together a deck of cards -- the “Deck of 55” -- that gave the most-wanted members of Hussein’s government and the Ba’athist party each a place on the deck, from the Ace of Spades himself on down. In that first year, the Unit was responsible for ripping through the stack, removing all four Aces from play. Fuck, if us operators had been eligible for the reward money offered for their capture, we could have all retired to our own beach paradises. We’re talking a monetary figure that totaled in the eight digits. Instead, we made filthy rich men out of a lot of shady fucks who were willing to rat on their even scummier cronies.
In hindsight, the mission involved a whole lotta yanking old men from their beds at night, but it was pretty revolutionary at the time. The tactics, technology, and tempo... it was all groundbreaking stuff. We absolutely shredded through the old guard and its Fedayeen paramilitary force.
A hell of lot of good that did. Our efforts merely created a void. We went into Iraq hoping to create a new land of opportunity -- a beacon of freedom. We most certainly did that; the most putrid and despicable evil imaginable now had the freedom to operate and an opportunity to rain down hell on earth. Civilian and military leaders way above our pay grade -- the ones that put us in Iraq -- ignored the situation far too long. It was a chaotic and complex mess of emerging and ever-shifting factions. The natives were obliterating each other -- car bombs in markets, mass beheadings, and every other abhorrent act you can imagine.
At first, the powers that be tried to write off the escalating violence as the dying spams of “FREs” (Former Regime Elements). But in time they were forced to take stock of the ground truth and map out the convoluted sectarian conflict taking shape. On one side you had the Shi’ites, headlined by Muqtada al-Sadr’s Shi’ite Mahdi Army. On the other, you had various nationalist groups and Sunni insurgents.
And both sides were made puppets by foreigners who sought to stoke the flames. The Iranian Revolutionary Guard’s elite Quds Force trained, equipped, and directed extremist Shi’ite militias. Meanwhile, a flood of foreign Salafist jihadists came in to “support” the Sunnis. Eventually that wicked collection of jihadists coalesced to form Al Qaeda in Iraq (AQI), a branch that proved so bloodthirsty even bin Laden and his chief lieutenant, Ayman al-Zawahiri, begged them to tone it down. Right? It don’t get much more gangsta than that.
In late 2004 and into 2005, wave after wave of gore and death crashed against the bedrock of Iraqi society with the seemingly unstoppable regularity of the tide. And yet, the Unit was asked to wade into this ocean of violence and make it still. And that’s exactly what we would proceed to do.
***
As for me, I threw myself into the mission and flourished. As a result, I proved to be an atypically fast riser inside the Unit. Each squadron was broken down into troops, which were further subdivided into teams. I was quickly promoted to a team leader position in my assault troop -- way quicker than most -- which was both a heady honor and a heavy responsibility.
I was called into the office with my troop commander and troop sergeant major. The troop commander -- a major -- kicked back in the chair and let the sergeant major do the talking. That’s how it worked at the Unit; the senior enlisted men ran the show. The promotion “ceremony” went a little something like this, at least to the best of my recollection:
In a slow, drawn-out Texas drawl, he said, “You know, Greyhound...”
You see, “Greyhound” was my code name with Delta. That’s what most of the guys in my squadron called me, although a handful closer to me more often called me “Bax.” Anyway...
“You know, Greyhound, you can be an insufferable prick.”
Yeah, this was going well. Delta encourages open, even adversarial communication to make sure everyone gets called on their bullshit, but I probably took that encouragement a little too much to heart on occasion. Such as this one.
“Can I? Or is it ‘may I?’ I still get those two confused...”
“See, that’s what I’m talking about -- you fucking, insufferable prick.”
“Uhhh... thanks?”
“Shut up. I’m already regretting this. Like I was saying, I’ve been keeping tabs on you and you can be an insufferable prick. But you also have a knack for reading situations and acting accordingly -- present conversation very much excluded. Yeah, you’re a solid operator, pretty good at CQB... So fucking what? Everyone in this outfit is, otherwise they wouldn’t be here. But your edge... your edge is the fact that the other guys are naturally drawn to you and they follow your lead already. You’re what we call an ‘emotional compass.’ You set the tone and tempo for your team. That doesn’t mean you can’t be a goddamn annoying asshole at times, because you most certainly are. But your leadership is an asset to this troop... You’re an asset. At least that’s what I have to keep reminding myself now that I’ve decided to give you this opportunity. So don’t go fucking it up and turn me into that guy who gave Baxter his own team.”
What can I say? I was insufferably charming. Or was it charmingly insufferable? Well, it was a long time ago, but I was. And you know what? I made it my point to be -- sometimes, anyway. Somebody has to step up and lighten the heavy when everything else is so dark. And it ain’t easy. You walk a fine line between providing some much-needed humor and just flat out running your suck, bitching left and right, which will make everyone hate you in a big hurry.
But I also could read the collective mood of the group and understand when it was better to shut up and get reflective. Or when we needed to go emotionless and just let the training take over. We existed to deal with fast-evolving situations. We toggled back and forth between all these mental settings, sometimes as quickly as we transitioned through rooms. And, at least for my team, and sometimes the larger troop, it was my job to play the role of conductor and make sure we were all on the same page and hitting the right notes.
I don’t know... I tried not to think about any of that too much; I just did what felt right. That always used to get me in trouble, but once I was inside the Unit it was not only welcomed, it was rewarded. I think there’s something to be said for being yourself and letting your natural leadership take over versus trying to apply some mumbo-jumbo bullshit from a textbook. I just kept being myself when I took on the new role and the guys got in line. I got no flack -- they rallied behind me. It was a good fit.
However, even before he was recruited inside "the Operation" and all the craziness that followed, Bax had lived a pretty remarkable life. Back then, in an attempt to leave some sort of legacy for his family who had too often been left behind and in the dark, he was working on a memoir that summarized his military career.
A rough draft of that memoir is just one of several attachments Baxter includes in his first email to you, thinking that if you understand where he's coming from, you might be more likely to actually heed his warnings.
Over the next few days, we'll be running that memoir in parts here at EnginesofExtinction.com to allow you to get to know Bax just a little bit before things get real on Tuesday.
Attachment: Bax’s Memoir (Rough Draft)
The Terrorists’ Terrorist:
One Man’s Global War on Terror
By
Jared W. Baxter
I honestly cannot remember all the times I’ve fired my weapon in anger at another human being, nor can I recall every time a weapon has been fired at me. For most people, a single traumatic act of that magnitude would define the rest of their life. And here, I can’t even remember all of the occasions -- literally cannot remember -- even if you laid out the stack of government paperwork detailing each action.
Now, I could probably recall all of the countries I’ve visited to grab someone off the street or put someone in an early grave. But it would take some serious consideration and the aid of an atlas.
Nope, we’re not in Illinois anymore.
I grew up in Schaumburg. It’s one of the northwest suburbs of Chicago, kinda out by O’Hare. I was an only child and a pretty average student. Back then, I never really thought too hard about what I might want to be.
I guess when I was much younger, I thought it’d be pretty cool to become a paleontologist. What kid doesn’t love dinosaurs? But somewhere along the line that lost its appeal. It’s easy now to sit back and say a dozen years of university and grad school just to go dig in the dirt doesn’t exactly sound all that glamorous. But in reality, I just sort of lost focus. Even though I performed well on standardized tests, my grades weren’t exactly conducive to that particular pursuit. Eventually, joining the military became the plan... as tends to happen to kids who don’t have a plan, you know?
I had a mandatory sit down with the school’s guidance counselor to discuss my future. Neither of us seemed overly excited about the meeting. We were both just checking boxes and doing what we were told we had to.
“So, uhh... Jared...” You had to just love this guy’s commitment to improvisation. He didn’t even bother to review my name before I stepped into his office. Fair enough -- I can’t remember his now.
“Have you thought about what you might want to do next fall? Oakton Community College could be a consideration, and you could try to work up to a four ye...”
“Yeah, well, I’m gonna join the Army, I think. I, uhh...”
This wannabe comedian kind of raised his eyebrows and, fighting back his chuckling, said in his best Ted Knight, “Well, the world needs ditch diggers too.” I don’t think he was encouraging me to rekindle those paleontological dreams.
“I’d say the same thing about guidance counselors, but I’m not sure that’s actually the case.”
Every bit as unimpressed by my crack as I was with his, he audibled and tried to get serious -- or at least get through the appointment. “...Okay. The Army? Yes, that’s an option. Have you spoken with a recruiter?”
“No.”
“Well, you’re going to want to do that. Discuss some options. Don’t let the recruiter talk you into anything that’s not in your best interest. And with your grades, the military might not be a bad way to go. Think about what you might want to do. And not just in the Army, but what skills you can learn that can help you once you get out. And Jared?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever you do, don’t let anyone talk you into becoming a Ranger.”
He was actually the third or fourth person to express that same sentiment. And it was at that point that my interest was officially piqued. Remember, this was the mid-’90s. When someone said the word “Ranger,” I always assumed they were either talking about Nolan Ryan or Chuck Norris.
I’m embarrassed to say when the rest of the country was stunned to hear about what had happened in Mogadishu in ‘93, I was too caught up in my high school haze of sports, sportbikes, and sportier girls to even take notice that kids not much older than me were dying for their country, fighting a war I didn’t even realize existed.
I wasn’t looking to join the Army out of any great desire to serve my country, nor was I a big-time military buff. I just didn’t know what else to do. I was a pretty good athlete, and the thought of learning how to shoot and riding around in helicopters and planes for a few years sounded like it could be a pretty cool experience. That was about the extent of it.
I hadn’t contemplated the possibility of actually being thrown into a real-deal, life-and-death battle. At that point, in my head, the United States had fought in the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam, and Desert Storm. And that was it. And even though Desert Storm was all over CNN when I was in middle school, it was like what, a fucking four-day ground war? Once you took the Soviets out of the equation, I didn’t even know there was anyone left to fight. That applied to the good ole USA just as much as it did Rocky Balboa.
Anyway, the repeated advice to steer clear of the Rangers convinced me to actually do a little research. It was then that I learned about Iran, Panama, Grenada, and Somalia. Word was, even if the United States wasn’t at war, the 75th Ranger Regiment was. Put in a few years there, and you were going to see combat.
Fuck, man, I had no idea. Rather than scare me off or get me to heed those warnings, that fact actually pulled me in. I didn’t have a death wish or bloodlust or anything, but the thought you could actually test yourself that way -- legally -- and honorably? That was it. For the first time, I actually knew what I wanted to do. What I wanted to be.
And naturally, the next several years would turn out to be the quietest period in Ranger history since the modern battalions were formed. Regardless, I etched out a place for myself at 3rd Battalion. There wasn’t much to do at Ft. Benning, and some of the spit and shine discipline enforced at the Regiment during that era fucking grated on me. But I loved the work -- the real work, anyway -- and I loved the Regiment, and I was consistently inspired by my fellow Rangers.
It was during this period that I met Jennifer. I was back in the suburbs on leave. And I know this is like the lamest cliché -- something that only happens on TV, and bad TV at that -- but I actually met her in a grocery store. I didn’t have my vegetable aisle rap down, but fortunately I ran into her again a couple days later at a bar -- where people meet on TV and in real life.
Turns out she was witty, driven, educated, strong, beautiful... well out of my league, that’s for sure. And she wasn’t the least bit impressed by my choice of profession. But somehow I wore down her defenses just enough to get a number out of her. A number that actually worked.
From there, we kept in touch and I continued to etch away at those defenses. We saw each other whenever we could, and eventually I convinced her to move down from Chicago and get hitched. It wasn’t long after that that we had a little girl, Katelyn, and talked about building up our own little army from there.
My career was on the right track too. I came into the Regiment with a natural and healthy disrespect for authority. That’s just my personality. But in the Rangers, that outlook can prove unhealthy in a hurry. I managed to bite my lip just enough to get where I wanted to be, ultimately earning a coveted slot as a platoon sergeant in a rifle company. As far as I was concerned, I was in for the long haul. I was destined to do my twenty as a Ranger.
Of course, life changed for all of us -- all of us, no matter who you were or where you lived -- on September 11th, 2001. But for those of us in the United States Special Operations Command and our families, I think it’s fair to say it changed for us more than most.
Now I want to be careful how I say this. Because, believe me, we were devastated by what happened that day. Pissed off beyond description. But we were almost a little giddy at the same time. When those towers fell, we knew what that meant for us.
The way we saw it, 3rd Batt was like a professional football team stacked with first-round draft picks, but we only ever practiced, never actually played a game. Well, now kickoff was right around the corner. And we couldn’t be happier that these particular motherfuckers were the ones that were going to be on the receiving end of all that pent-up aggression and years of arduous training.
Just over a month after 9/11, a couple hundred 3/75 Rangers loaded up into four MC-130s for Operation Rhino. The Rangers weren’t just going to war, we were jumping right down al Qaeda’s throat, parachuting into Kandahar, Afghanistan.
That was my first combat jump. It’s hard to comprehend just how quickly time can pass. In some ways, that first op feels like it took place only twelve weeks ago, not twelve years ago. But in others, I am very far removed from that nervous and eager young Ranger, and even further displaced from that naïve high school senior whose choices had set me down this path.
Anyway, Operation Rhino turned out to be a dick tease; there was no one there to fight. No matter, there would be more than enough fighting to go around in the days, weeks, and years ahead.
And the 75th Ranger Regiment would more than prove itself time and time again. By now it’s been shown beyond a shadow of a doubt that if our great nation wants to point a small team of well-trained men at a target and see it absolutely obliterated, no one else can bring the hate like the Rangers. RLTW... Rangers Lead The-Mother-Fucking Way.
But as much as I loved my fellow Rangers, it wasn’t long after I got my first taste of combat that I knew I was destined to move on. Move up.
***
Every now and then, we’d hear whispers about what the “guys behind the fence” at Fort Bragg were up to. And occasionally, we even saw it firsthand. I knew if I hoped to have a shot at putting Usama bin Laden’s ugly horseface in my crosshairs, I was going to have to go over there to make it happen.
Doing my best to ignore any bouts of rationalism and pragmatism that I may have occasionally suffered from, I decided to try my luck at selection for CAG, aka Combat Applications Group, aka 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta.
Delta Force.
The Unit.
Believe me, I knew I was being wildly optimistic to even give it a shot. RIP (Ranger Indoctrination Program) sucked enough as it was. Something like 80% of my RIP class washed-out and never actually made it to Battalion. I think the numbers are similar for the guys trying to get into Army Special Forces.
Well, Delta invites the upper tier of those who not only became Rangers and Green Berets, but have already kicked ass there for years. And then you know what it does with them? It spits them back out at a rate of about nine outta every ten of those asskickers who dare to try. They pull in potential selectees from other units too -- hell, even from other services -- just hoping they can somehow find enough of the right breed of men to fill their ranks.
At selection, they dig deep into you -- your brain, your body, your heart, your guts -- to determine if you’re worthy of being trained up to the standard of the most elite combat unit in existence. And selection sucked. Suuuucked. But by some fluke of fate, I was that one in ten who made it through all the physical trials, the mental exhaustion, the psychological exams, and the IQ tests.
I still don’t know how it happened. I figured I just got lucky the first day. And then I got lucky again the next day. And the next. And all the following days for however many weeks it took until I finally got invited to OTC -- Operator Training Course.
***
OTC... That’s where they actually take the hardened vets who passed the selection course -- many already boasting more than a decade of special operations experience --and hone them into virtuosos in the surgical application of violence.
It’s really hard to describe, but I’ll do my best. Okay, how can I put this? Think of the Olympics. You see these teenage gymnasts with impossible balance and agility, performing all sort of crazy flips and twists, bounding across narrow beams and then sticking landings. Well, if you hadn’t ever seen that with your own two eyes, you probably wouldn’t believe the human form is actually capable of such feats.
It’s the same with anyone who manages to break through the accepted boundaries of performance to elevate their craft to another level. That includes classical musicians who flawlessly execute the most difficult and complex études to strongman competitors who carry one-thousand pound logs on their shoulders. Or how about that guy who set the world record by holding his breath underwater for more than twenty-two minutes? It’s a testament to what can be accomplished when you combine rare talent, rare training, and rare commitment.
Well, that’s exactly what the operators of the Unit are when it comes to things like jumping out of airplanes, crashing through doors, and neutralizing any threat they may encounter on the other side.
The Mary Lou Rettons of close-quarters combat? That’s not exactly the image I was hoping to formulate, but you get what I was going for.
OTC provides you with the tools and training necessary to perform at that level. It sets you down the path of truly mastering a wide range of dark arts and sciences. For example, Unit operators are almost universally off the charts in terms of combat marksmanship. And when it comes to executing free-flow close-quarters battle (CQB) techniques in a high-stress environment in unfamiliar surroundings, no one else compares. No one.
Making it through selection was just the start. If you couldn’t keep up in OTC, you got sent back to wherever you came from or wherever you were needed. It turned out that was no idle threat but a relatively common occurrence.
I didn’t lack confidence in my abilities, but I was still pretty surprised just how well OTC went for me. I felt like I truly discovered why I was put on this planet. And I thrived in the new “Big Boy Rules” environment. Whatever personality quirks I had that may have gotten in my way before made me an ideal fit for this sort of organization.
At the time, Delta was sectioned into three operational sabre squadrons: A, B, and C. And at the end of each OTC graduation, the squadrons alternated in calling dibs on the new recruits to bolster their ranks. It’s kind of like the counterterrorist version of the NFL Draft, minus round-the-clock ESPN coverage and Mel Kiper Jr.’s magnificent ‘do. Well, I was humbled to be the first-round draft pick of C Squadron and excited to get to work. And no, I didn’t get a baseball cap or a handshake from the Colonel, if that’s how you’re envisioning it.
Of course, as luck would have it, by the time I got sent back overseas as a full-fledged operator, Delta was no longer actively chasing after UBL. It was now 2003 and Bin Laden was... well, yesterday’s news is a bit extreme -- but the Unit had quickly become entrenched in the new war in Iraq. I was cool with that; that’s where the action was at the time and that’s precisely why we were there. So send me to the sandbox and let’s get down to business.
***
In those early days, we were the leading man-hunters in the AO (area of operations). As such, we were tasked with hunting down not just Saddam Hussein, but pretty much everyone and anyone directly related to him and his regime.
Some intel geeks came up with the idea of throwing together a deck of cards -- the “Deck of 55” -- that gave the most-wanted members of Hussein’s government and the Ba’athist party each a place on the deck, from the Ace of Spades himself on down. In that first year, the Unit was responsible for ripping through the stack, removing all four Aces from play. Fuck, if us operators had been eligible for the reward money offered for their capture, we could have all retired to our own beach paradises. We’re talking a monetary figure that totaled in the eight digits. Instead, we made filthy rich men out of a lot of shady fucks who were willing to rat on their even scummier cronies.
In hindsight, the mission involved a whole lotta yanking old men from their beds at night, but it was pretty revolutionary at the time. The tactics, technology, and tempo... it was all groundbreaking stuff. We absolutely shredded through the old guard and its Fedayeen paramilitary force.
A hell of lot of good that did. Our efforts merely created a void. We went into Iraq hoping to create a new land of opportunity -- a beacon of freedom. We most certainly did that; the most putrid and despicable evil imaginable now had the freedom to operate and an opportunity to rain down hell on earth. Civilian and military leaders way above our pay grade -- the ones that put us in Iraq -- ignored the situation far too long. It was a chaotic and complex mess of emerging and ever-shifting factions. The natives were obliterating each other -- car bombs in markets, mass beheadings, and every other abhorrent act you can imagine.
At first, the powers that be tried to write off the escalating violence as the dying spams of “FREs” (Former Regime Elements). But in time they were forced to take stock of the ground truth and map out the convoluted sectarian conflict taking shape. On one side you had the Shi’ites, headlined by Muqtada al-Sadr’s Shi’ite Mahdi Army. On the other, you had various nationalist groups and Sunni insurgents.
And both sides were made puppets by foreigners who sought to stoke the flames. The Iranian Revolutionary Guard’s elite Quds Force trained, equipped, and directed extremist Shi’ite militias. Meanwhile, a flood of foreign Salafist jihadists came in to “support” the Sunnis. Eventually that wicked collection of jihadists coalesced to form Al Qaeda in Iraq (AQI), a branch that proved so bloodthirsty even bin Laden and his chief lieutenant, Ayman al-Zawahiri, begged them to tone it down. Right? It don’t get much more gangsta than that.
In late 2004 and into 2005, wave after wave of gore and death crashed against the bedrock of Iraqi society with the seemingly unstoppable regularity of the tide. And yet, the Unit was asked to wade into this ocean of violence and make it still. And that’s exactly what we would proceed to do.
***
As for me, I threw myself into the mission and flourished. As a result, I proved to be an atypically fast riser inside the Unit. Each squadron was broken down into troops, which were further subdivided into teams. I was quickly promoted to a team leader position in my assault troop -- way quicker than most -- which was both a heady honor and a heavy responsibility.
I was called into the office with my troop commander and troop sergeant major. The troop commander -- a major -- kicked back in the chair and let the sergeant major do the talking. That’s how it worked at the Unit; the senior enlisted men ran the show. The promotion “ceremony” went a little something like this, at least to the best of my recollection:
In a slow, drawn-out Texas drawl, he said, “You know, Greyhound...”
You see, “Greyhound” was my code name with Delta. That’s what most of the guys in my squadron called me, although a handful closer to me more often called me “Bax.” Anyway...
“You know, Greyhound, you can be an insufferable prick.”
Yeah, this was going well. Delta encourages open, even adversarial communication to make sure everyone gets called on their bullshit, but I probably took that encouragement a little too much to heart on occasion. Such as this one.
“Can I? Or is it ‘may I?’ I still get those two confused...”
“See, that’s what I’m talking about -- you fucking, insufferable prick.”
“Uhhh... thanks?”
“Shut up. I’m already regretting this. Like I was saying, I’ve been keeping tabs on you and you can be an insufferable prick. But you also have a knack for reading situations and acting accordingly -- present conversation very much excluded. Yeah, you’re a solid operator, pretty good at CQB... So fucking what? Everyone in this outfit is, otherwise they wouldn’t be here. But your edge... your edge is the fact that the other guys are naturally drawn to you and they follow your lead already. You’re what we call an ‘emotional compass.’ You set the tone and tempo for your team. That doesn’t mean you can’t be a goddamn annoying asshole at times, because you most certainly are. But your leadership is an asset to this troop... You’re an asset. At least that’s what I have to keep reminding myself now that I’ve decided to give you this opportunity. So don’t go fucking it up and turn me into that guy who gave Baxter his own team.”
What can I say? I was insufferably charming. Or was it charmingly insufferable? Well, it was a long time ago, but I was. And you know what? I made it my point to be -- sometimes, anyway. Somebody has to step up and lighten the heavy when everything else is so dark. And it ain’t easy. You walk a fine line between providing some much-needed humor and just flat out running your suck, bitching left and right, which will make everyone hate you in a big hurry.
But I also could read the collective mood of the group and understand when it was better to shut up and get reflective. Or when we needed to go emotionless and just let the training take over. We existed to deal with fast-evolving situations. We toggled back and forth between all these mental settings, sometimes as quickly as we transitioned through rooms. And, at least for my team, and sometimes the larger troop, it was my job to play the role of conductor and make sure we were all on the same page and hitting the right notes.
I don’t know... I tried not to think about any of that too much; I just did what felt right. That always used to get me in trouble, but once I was inside the Unit it was not only welcomed, it was rewarded. I think there’s something to be said for being yourself and letting your natural leadership take over versus trying to apply some mumbo-jumbo bullshit from a textbook. I just kept being myself when I took on the new role and the guys got in line. I got no flack -- they rallied behind me. It was a good fit.
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