15.

Ambassador Death Threats

Although still experiencing daily pain and sleepless nights from my injuries, I recovered to the point that I could receive an assignment to protect Ambassador to the Philippines John Negroponte, who had received some death threats. A Yale graduate, he dropped out of Harvard Law School to become a diplomat. Of Greek descent, he spoke English, French, Greek, Spanish, and Vietnamese.

With me from Team Six came Johnny. He had been stationed in the Philippines before, possibly on a deployment with SEAL Team One, and had a lot of friends—many of them female. He had volunteered for the assignment to have some fun.

Johnny always had a lighthearted attitude. We were living in a condo on the tenth floor of a building in Makati, an upscale neighborhood in Manila. One evening, an earthquake hit. It woke us up, along with our maid, Lucy. Johnny and I both came out of our rooms, he in his boxer shorts and I in my birthday suit. Outside the window, buildings swayed side to side. I could feel our building sway, too. “What do you want to do?” I asked.

Johnny had that big smile on his face. “Nothing we can do. Just sort it out when we hit the ground.”

We laughed it off and went back to bed.

Our job included training Philippine nationals, some from the Philippine National Police force, to protect the ambassador. We showed the Filipinos how to do diplomatic advances, run a three-vehicle motorcade, walk a detail diamond (one agent walking point, one on each side of the principal, and one bringing up the rear), and more. We took them out to shoot with their Uzis. Uzis are poor weapons for accuracy, and the Philippine nationals were poor marksmen with any weapon. The ambassador was fortunate they didn’t have to shoot anyone to protect his life. Our recommendation to the assistant regional security officer was to let Filipinos carry shotguns instead of Uzis, so they had a better chance of hitting something. The change wasn’t made.

Sitting down with the commandant and assistant regional security officer, and drawing on my experiences running a CIA safe house in Somalia, we came up with an improved defense and E&E plan for the embassy. Also, we took the Marine embassy guards out to the range for shooting practice. “Hey, we’re marines. We know how to shoot.” After spending a few days on the range with Johnny and me, the marines’ eyes opened up. “Good stuff!”

Ambassador Negroponte never seemed to stop, always meeting with people, and he played tennis well. He treated us like we were part of the family. I felt close to his children, whom we also protected. His British wife was polite and sweet. They invited Johnny and me to Thanksgiving dinner at the American Residence in Baguio, a mansion complete with chandeliers and oil paintings.

One day, Johnny and I did an advance for the ambassador’s visit to a chiropractor. I wore my Oakley sunglasses. We walked up to the front desk and introduced ourselves. The receptionist invited us in. As we searched rooms for bad guys, we interrupted the chiropractor during her lunch. We apologized and continued on.

Later, we received a call from the ambassador, asking us to see him. We left our condo in Makati and met with him. He politely told us, “Next time you go to the chiropractor’s office, don’t go all roughshod. That chiropractor also happens to be a friend.” This was before 9/11, so security was less of a priority, but we had done our advance the way we were trained. He explained, “I have a shoulder injury from tennis, and if she doesn’t realign my spine, I’m in pain.”

I was skeptical about chiropractors and didn’t think they would be effective in easing the constant pain I had in my leg and neck, but I filed our conversation in the back of my mind anyway.

*   *   *

At the embassy, Johnny and I met a middle-aged American doctor who feared for his life. “I’m doing charity work as a doctor. Just trying to help people. And the mob is trying to rob and kill me.”

“How do you know?”

“They’re following me. People call my hotel, checking if I’m there. They’re at the hotel waiting for me.”

Johnny and I told the assistant regional security officer (ARSO), working for the State Department. “We think the mob is really going to kill this guy.”

*   *   *

Johnny and I wore civilian clothes. Not wanting to stick out like Secret Service agents or diplomatic security, we didn’t carry radios. I liked to wear khaki Royal Robbins pants because they’re easy to run in, have a lot of pockets, and look nice. Over a navy blue T-shirt, I wore a photographer’s vest with a pair of binoculars and a blowout kit in the pockets. In a pancake holster on my hip was my SIG SAUER, which held one fifteen-round magazine. In the mag holder on my belt, I carried two more magazines. Over the vest I wore an unbuttoned button-down shirt, concealing my pistol and spare magazines.

Leaving the doctor at the embassy, the two of us ran a mini countersurveillance of the doctor’s hotel. It wasn’t a high-class place like the Intercontinental, but it wasn’t a dive, either. Three blocks away from his hotel, Johnny and I stood on one of the top floors of a building. I called the hotel’s front desk and introduced myself as working for diplomatic security. Explaining the situation, I asked the desk clerk to open the curtains in the doctor’s room. Also, I told him what I looked like and what time I’d arrive.

When the curtains opened, we could see inside with the binoculars we’d brought from the Team—pocket-sized waterproof Bausch & Lombs (now licensed with Bushnell) with antiglare coating, enhanced light transmission, and high color contrast. No one seemed to be waiting in the room. I felt relieved that we wouldn’t have to do a forced entry and get into a gun battle. The desk clerk verified that no one was inside. So far, so good. Then again, he could be setting us up.

We moved in a wide square around the hotel area, looking for anyone running surveillance. Then we moved in closer toward the hotel, making concentric squares.

A junky old vehicle sat in front of the hotel with two guys in it. My spider senses tingled. These are the two guys I need to look out for. They weren’t dressed like businessmen and didn’t seem to be there to pick anyone up. No one else in the area seemed to be a threat.

Johnny parked our Jeep Cherokee near the corner of the building where he could see the doctor’s room above and the thugs in front of him. I transferred my SIG SAUER from my holster to my vest pocket, keeping my hand on it with my finger near the trigger. Then I stepped out of our vehicle and walked to the hotel.

Inside the lobby, my eyes scanned for anyone or anything out of place. At that point in my career, I could take a glance at people, note their posture and body language, and know if they were a threat. Part of my awareness seemed to be a heightened sixth sense—like when you think somebody is watching you and you turn around to find out somebody really is watching you.

The desk clerk, probably a relative of the hotel owner, escorted me to the stairway. An elevator can be a death trap. It can be stopped between floors. There could be somebody on top of the elevator—it doesn’t just happen in movies. Or a big surprise could be waiting when the elevator opens. If this was a setup, the desk clerk would become more nervous as we neared the doctor’s room. He would know he stood a good chance of getting killed during an ambush. If the ambush didn’t kill him, I would.

We entered the stairway. I drew my pistol and bladed the stairs as we walked up—scanning the overhead for a muzzle or someone about to drop a brick on our heads, then scanning the stairs in front of me.

As we reached the fourth floor, I was going to ask the clerk to walk out in front of me, but he already had. He led me through the hallway and unlocked the doctor’s door. Inside the room, I locked the door behind us, including the bar latch. I didn’t want any surprise visitors from behind. The clerk went to the center of the room and began packing up the doctor’s belongings—perfect; if anyone was going to attack us, they’d go after the clerk first. Also, his relaxed state gave me further evidence that he wasn’t setting me up. I searched the room for bogeymen: shower, closets, under the bed—everywhere. When everything was clear, I closed one curtain halfway over the window, signaling Johnny we were in and all was clear. Maybe I could’ve waved at him from the window, but I didn’t take the chance of eating a sniper’s bullet. If I hadn’t given the signal within five minutes after leaving Johnny, he’d’ve been coming to back me up.

The clerk packed a rolling suitcase, a garment bag, and a briefcase full of U.S. currency. I wondered how the doctor had acquired the stacks of money—thousands of dollars from what I could see. Maybe he brought the cash from the States to survive on. Maybe he’d been involved in something he shouldn’t have been.

After the clerk finished packing everything, he carried the luggage down the stairs. Feeling more comfortable, I still had my weapon out but wasn’t aiming at every potential hazard. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I put the pistol back in my pocket. I quickly looked around the lobby. Everything seemed OK.

I thanked the clerk and took the luggage. After hooking the garment bag to the suitcase, I pulled it with my left hand while carrying the briefcase in my right.

When I exited the hotel, the two thugs saw me. They seemed to know what I was there for, and they seemed to know that I knew what they were there for. Is it worth it for you to try taking me down? If they made a move, I’d have to drop the briefcase in my right hand and draw my pistol from my pocket. I could move while shooting, and they would be confined to their vehicle. If they tried it, I’d make them have a bad day. Even so, my anus puckered.

Johnny brought up the Jeep Cherokee and stopped at an angle behind them. If they wanted to get out and shoot at the Jeep, they’d have to get out and turn—without their door as a shield between them and us. Johnny stepped out with his weapon drawn and held down at his side. The door shielded his lower body from the direction of the two thugs. Johnny’s presence gave me peace of mind.

I walked past the thugs, threw the luggage in the back, and sat down in the passenger seat. The thugs had cranked their heads around to look at us, becoming highly animated, speaking rapidly back and forth. Johnny drove us out and circled the block, and when we returned, the two thugs were gone.

We picked up the doctor at the embassy, gave him his luggage, and took him to a U.S. commissary in Manila where they had shopping and a restaurant. We kept him there until his flight was ready to leave. He thanked us over and over again.

As we drove the doctor to the airport, we had another of our vehicles drive out front to make sure the route was clear.

“You two saved my life.” He continued to thank us. We loaded the doctor onto a plane.

Later, he wrote the embassy thanking them for our help, which resulted in big kudos for us. We found out later that the doctor had been dating a mob boss’s daughter. She lost her virginity to him, and he promised to marry her—even though he had plans to leave the country. When the mob boss discovered this, he put a contract out on the doctor. Maybe he deserved it.

I’d come a long way in recovering from my wounded leg. I still had daily pain and sleepless nights, though, and the diplomatic security assignment was an easy job as far as SEAL Team Six assignments went—a cakewalk. I knew I wouldn’t be able to work the tough assignments again.

*   *   *

After completing the diplomatic security assignment, I returned to the Team. We did our routine workups: running, kill house, shooting range. I realized, This isn’t going to work out.

I spoke to Six’s command master chief. “I’m going to pack my stuff and head to Georgia. I’m in constant pain. My leg throbs all day. A lot of hip pain. Neck pain. I can’t sleep too well.” At the time, I didn’t know what was wrong with me. Having adjusted for my gunshot wound by changing my gait, I was carrying myself wrong—my externally rotated foot was affecting my hip. My neck compensated by going the other way. Sort of like a house: If the basement tilts to the right and sinks a little, the roof follows—except the neck pulls the opposite way.

“I understand exactly where you’re coming from. If you want, I’ll transfer you to any Team you want, send you to BUD/S to be an instructor … You can pick a division here: air ops, boat ops, demo … Whatever you want to do. Just tell me and it’s yours.”

I’d never be able to do what my Teammates were doing. I remembered going up the stairs in the kill house—holding up the last three guys in the train. That had never happened to me before. I knew when I was at the top of my game. Now I was not. It was a harsh reality to face. I’m not as good, not as fast, and my senses are not as keen as they used to be. Definitely not physically doing what I used to do. “Thank you, Master Chief. But if I’m not going to be one of the Team guys doing the job, I’d rather just get on with the next phase of my life. Do something different. See what’s out there.”

Most of my adult life, I had been in the military. It would be a new adventure: What can I do in the civilian world?