Jamie Smith - Gray Work: Confessions of an American Paramilitary Spy

I wish to dedicate this book to my God and Savior Jesus Christ, without whom Id be lost; to my family, who have been my ever-present rock; and to those who fight for our country, both military and civilianyour sacrifice cannot be appreciated, nor rewarded enough. To the fine men and women of SCG, LLC who worked tirelessly in the face of much adversity, but who always gave 100 percent. Finally, to Morgan, Cole, and Mallory, I hope this helps you understand why your dad was gone so much, missed so many birthdays and special times. I love you... to pieces.

Everything in this book is my opinion or recollection. I have changed many of the names, mainly to protect sources and the identities of people who are still working dangerous jobs in dangerous parts of the world. In a few instances, I have also compressed the timeline of the events described or created a composite character. Honoring the confidentiality agreement I signed when hired by the Central Intelligence Agency, and then by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I submitted the manuscript for their review and have removed information considered classified. Both the FBI and CIA Publication Review Boards were courteous in their review process. The CIA has required that Ias is required of every former employeeinclude this disclaimer:

All statements of fact, opinion, or analysis expressed are my own and do not reflect in any way the official position or views of the CIA or any other U.S. Government agency. Nothing in the contents should be construed as asserting or implying U.S. Government authentication of information or Agency endorsement of the authors views. This material has been reviewed by the CIA to prevent the disclosure of classified information.

Jamie Smith

February 2015

All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.

T. E. Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom: A Triumph

Last week of Ramadan, August 2011

Tripoli, Libya

IN THE DARK HOURS OF THE EARLY MORNING, my cell buzzed and a thin voice gave me the news: bad guys with guns were heading our way. This was a city at war and the thugs who kept Muammar Qadhafi in power were savages. But like hyenas, they were most dangerous when desperate and cornered. For days Id carefully dodged Qadhafis hit teams from the Mukhabarat el-Jamahiriya as they stepped up their hunt for the rebels. Id kept one step ahead of them at each turn. But now, somehow, overnight, theyd found me.

I got up from the couch I was sleeping on in the front room of the three-story concrete villa and grabbed my riflean AK-47. As far as I could tell, I was the only American operator in this part of Libya. Qadhafis men were hunting the rebels, the opposition. It was going to be a long, hot night.

Sumo, wake up. The young Asian, a twenty-something freelance photographer, was snoring just a few feet from me on another couch. Id met him a few days earlier at the docks in Malta as Id waited to board the old Korean-run, Filipino-crewed, Libyan-flagged fishing boat that brought us into this war-torn nation. It was his first time in this region, and he thought I worked for a news agency. I doubted his chances of surviving this war zone alone, so I let him tag along; I figured I could pawn him off to a real news crew at the first opportunity.

Were out of here in two minutes, I said, pulling the shoulder strap of my tan Kifaru Tailgunner pack over my head and swinging it around to my front. Weighing nearly twelve pounds and about the size of a large football, it held my essentials: a loaded pistol given to me when I came ashore along with three spare mags of ammo, four loaded rifle magazinesalso a gift upon arrivala PVS-14-3 night vision monocular, a Medford TS-1 fixed-blade knife, a Garmin Oregon 400t GPS, and a Foretrex 401 GPS for a backup. There was a Ranger lensatic compass, signal mirror, Quest protein bars, gunshot kit, Thuraya satphone, laminated map, Cipro antibiotics, Imodium, infrared strobe, Velcro U.S. flag patch, passport, five grand in U.S. cash, extra batteries for everything, and most important, a laminated copy of two letters giving me authorization for being here.

Then I shouldered my Kifaru AG-1 main pack with everything else I brought in, including a compact sleeping bag, a change of clothes, foldout solar panel to charge my electronics, a Panasonic Toughbook computer, spare satphone antenna, more batteries for everything, CamelBak water purification bottle system, a dark brown Catoma one-man shelter, more protein bars, a larger first-aid kit, and other odds and ends. I put the big fifty-pound pack on last, just in case I had to ditch it. That way Id still have the smaller bagthe Tailgunner with my essentials for survivalhooked to my body.

I pulled the mag out from my AK-47 to make sure it was topped off, then hooked it back into the rifle, tugged on it to make sure it was seated, and then chambered a round. Last thing I wanted was to have my magazine fall out of my gun. It was a training habit from decades on firing ranges, but it was important. After getting my gear ready and wiping the cobwebs from my brain, I formed a loose plan that revolved around one conceptget the crap out of here. I woke the rest of our party: Sleepya former Libyan ambassador whod defected and whod brought me to this place; Hakin, his good friend who owned the house we were visiting; and the boyhis preteen son.

Sleepy opened his eyes wide from a deep sleep, then squinted, recoiling at the sound of my voice as if stung by a wasp. Mr. Jamie, what is going on?

Kamel called. Qadhafis men are heading here right now. They know you and I are here, and they also think our host is General Hakim. The man whose villa we were borrowing, Mr. Hakin, apparently had a name similar to that of a rebel leader. The caller, Kamel, was a significant leader in the Misrata rebellion. He was good at fund-raising, and coordinating the influx of men and weapons. He apparently also had really strong connections into the intel networks in Tripoli. If we didnt die tonight, Id be happily adding him to the list of people to whom I owed my life.

We didnt have time to screw around. I didnt know when Kamels team had intercepted the call or how far away the hit team might even be. Our only security right now was speedjust get out of here.

Meet me at the front of the house and be ready to leave in two minutes.

Tripoli was exploding, but my companys operation in Libya was shaping up. We had a forward-staging base in Malta, manned by one of our support staffers, and an Operations Center in Charlotte, North Carolina, run by Odell International. My partner, D, and I had been in and out of the country, collecting critical information on the state of the insurrection and pushing it back to Washington, D.C. We had estimates of the strength of the rebel brigades, which were set up to help secure the country, the extent of radical Islamist penetrations of the insurgency and those brigades, the locations and destinations of shipments of deadly surface-to-air missiles (Man-Portable Air Defense Systems, called MANPADS), and anything else that seemed germane. Wed been responding to the Department of Defense and other RFIs (or requests for information) about certain people and places. When it was all wrapped up, I knew Id have to brief Congresswoman Myrick, the Anti-Terrorism Caucus, and others on what we found. But first, I had to get out of Libya alive, and I wasnt eager to make another run into the crazy streets, where a confrontation could easily leave me dead and bleeding out.