Mercenary Mum: My Journey from Young Mother to Baghdad Bodyguard by Neryl Joyce Page A

rest of the team and the client can withdraw somewhere safer. I didn’t understand how someone could be a life preserver at the same time as leading an attack team. Tactically, it was just plain wrong. Moreover, a CAT leader should have considerable tactical knowledge and skills. Ideally, it’s a job for an ex–special forces soldier or, at a pinch, an infantry corporal with a shitload of experience. But a medic? I was sceptical to say the least.
    I took a deep breath in. It was way too early to make any judgments. Anyhow, I knew firsthand what it was like to be underestimated. As a woman in this industry, I would have to fight hard to be taken seriously. I was now in a man’s world, and that meant proving I was as capable as, if not better than, my male teammates.
    I was no longer an officer in the army. There was no more planning war games, delivering orders or leading my soldiers. I was just a security contractor, paid to follow orders and do my job. And that was what I was going to do.
    It’s a shame I couldn’t stick to that plan and keep my mouth shut. It would have saved me a lot of heartache. But shit happens and you find yourself unable to keep quiet any longer. And when you break the silence, all hell breaks loose with it.

THE TIME CAME to leave the safety of Camp Victory and head into the unknown. I lifted my body armour up over my head and onto my shoulders. Heavy and thick, it extended down to the top of my thighs. I tightened the straps around my waist, and adjusted my pistol so that it was within easy grasp. I grabbed my AK-47, hoping that it was zeroed, and loaded a magazine full of rounds onto it. A zeroed weapon is one that has been test-fired to ensure that the bullet goes where you want it to. It can mean the difference between life and death in a hostile environment.
    I was given a run-down of our strategy for getting back to the Green Zone: we’d be driving down Route Irish as fast as we could, trying not to get hit. Funny, yes, but I was interested in the actual plan, which no one in the team seemed to want to share. As far as they were concerned, they were providing me with an armed escort back to the Green Zone, treating me as if I were a client they were hired to protect.
    I was happy enough with that idea, even though it perplexed me why they wouldn’t want to use me as an extra shooter. I made the best of it and decided to use the trip to take a good look at the situation I was heading into. I would be able to observe topography, roads, bridges, people and other cars on the roads. It would also allow me to observe how my team operated in this environment and the tactics they employed.
    I climbed into the back seat of the ‘client vehicle’ and instantly realised it was not armoured. In fact, none of the vehicles was armoured. The first vehicle, known as the ‘advance team’, was a ten-year-old BMW car. The second vehicle, the client car, was also an old BMW. The third vehicle, which carried the CAT, was a wagon.
    These cars wouldn’t protect those inside them from a rock let alone a bullet or a rocket-propelled grenade. This was going to be a game of chance, with the prize being arriving in the Green Zone alive. Bugger their idea of treating me like a client. I wanted more ammo before I was going anywhere. One magazine was just not enough!
    The driver of my vehicle was a guy named Baloo. He was an ex–British royal marine who had close personal protection experience. I asked him if there were any more AK magazines. He couldn’t believe I had only been given the one.
    “You’ll need these more than I will,” Baloo said, throwing his backpack my way. Inside were about ten full magazines. “If we get into trouble, you’ll need to open fire on the enemy so that I can concentrate on driving.” It was the best plan I’d heard so far. I sat in the back seat and set myself up for the trip down Route Irish. My ammo was within easy reach for quick magazine changes, and I held my AK at