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.Everyone called him Red because of his flam-ing close-cropped hair and goatee.When I asked Red if he had anyprevious military or law enforcement experience, he boasted, I haveworked with the Secret Service, the FBI, all the city and state gov-ernments and police in towing. Red said Crescent hired him as a road mechanic/shooter. Schneider and others came to suspect him of stealing weaponsand alcohol, which Red vehemently denied.One night, Red pulledinto Wolf s Den after a mission.Schneider, flanked by several Cres-cent mercs, emerged from the shadows holding his pistol and forcedRed into one of the Conexes, according to Red and another mercwho was present.Schneider left him there until morning, lettinghim out of the shipping container only after Red agreed to write aconfession.Still confined to Wolf s Den, and guarded by two Iraqis withKalashnikovs, Red plotted his escape.After more than a day, hecommandeered an Avalanche and crashed through the gate under abarrage of gunfire. It was the most exhilarating thing I think I ve 0306817434.qxd 9/22/08 2:09 PM Page 6666 BIG BOY RULESever done, he told me. The gate was closed, chained and locked,with big tubular six-inch piping.Just remembering it I m getting alltingly.All I heard was gunfire behind me. Red sped the four hun-dred yards back to the Kuwait border.He screeched to a halt andthrew up his arms as the Kuwaiti guards drew their weapons. I m an American and I ve been held captive by my securitycompany! he said.He was turned over to the U.S.military, which released him.Afew days later, he made his way to the Kuwait City airport and flewhome to Illinois.Schneider veered off the highway toward TallilAir Base, visible in the distance.A herd of camels lumbered singlefile along the side of the road, smacking their lips, led by stick-wielding men in gray dishdashas and sandals.We reached the frontgate and I started to get nervous again.Except for my passport, myonly identification was my newspaper ID, my California driver s li-cense and an expired press card that had been issued by the U.S.military in Baghdad over a year earlier.But we were all welcomedinside me, the Iraqis, the expats.No one even checked my ID.Iwas with the band.Inside the base, the operators pointed their rifles into rustyclearing barrels and fired once, the loud click telling them the cham-bers were empty.They then piled back into the trucks and weheaded off for a pizza joint that Picco operated on the base.The restaurant was an oversized white trailer with white plastictables, plastic chairs, and a front counter where a man wearing awhite paper hat took your order.I had just ripped off my flak jacketand grabbed a Fanta when I noticed a Crescent operator I hadn tseen before.He was young with faint traces of acne on his otherwise smoothface.He had straight, short brown hair, an honest, all-Americanface, and was built like a college cornerback.Even in his Crescentgolf attire, he looked like a Tommy Hilfiger model.He couldn t sit 0306817434.qxd 9/22/08 2:09 PM Page 67WE PROTECT THE MILITARY 67still.He bounced like a pinball from the front counter to the table,to the refrigerator, to the counter, back to the refrigerator. You want something to eat? he asked me. I m good, thanks, I ll grab something, I said. You want some pizza? You want a sandwich? They ll make youa really nice sandwich if you ask them.Let me ask them for you. No, I m good.Thanks a lot. Don t worry about it, let me get you something.It s free, youknow? You don t have pay for it cause our owner, it s his place.Wedon t have to pay for it. No, really, I ll pay, I told him. But thanks. We sat down and I asked him where he was from.It was like tip-ping over a barrel of words.I couldn t write it all down fast enough.In just one breath I learned that he had gone to the University ofFlorida, that he had tried to be an accounting major, that he hadbeen in Iraq with the army, that he had been traumatized by hisparents divorce, that he had a brother in Buffalo, that his companywas fucked, that he wanted to go back to school in the spring.Heknew that I was a reporter, but I got the feeling that it would havespilled out exactly the same way no matter whom he was talking to.The pizza came, and he went and scooped it all up, about a half-dozen boxes for the team.I went over and put a $10 bill on thecounter. Dude, it s free! he shouted over his shoulder as he walked outthe door.We ate the pizza on the hood of one of the Avalanches in therutted dirt parking lot.Soon it was time to go.I was still standingthere, munching away, when the same kid said to me, Hey, are yougoing back to Kuwait? Yeah, back to Kuwait, I said. Let s go, he said. Get in. And that s how I met Jon Coté. 0306817434
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