Chapter 10: Klepto
This is the latest chapter of The Ice Man, my book about the Navy SEAL platoon in Iraq that took the blame for a CIA homicide. The book is available only to paid subscribers.
Most every SEAL gets a nickname, not always flattering. Cerrillo was “Taco.” There was a “Mo” and a “J-Bell.” The Korean guy in Foxtrot Platoon, Albert Hong, was “Donger.” Mark Carter picked up the nickname “Badger” after he beat a guy who was a foot taller than him in a wrestling match. There was a “Schwimbo” and a “Buck.” “Ski,” was a “straphanger,” a non-SEAL who was attached to the platoon. The lieutenants were “Lunchbox” and “Farquaad.”
“Klepto” was the nickname of a SEAL I’ll call Jeffrey Harper. Klepto, as in kleptomaniac. Harper’s sticky fingers were helpful when the platoon was training back in Coronado, California. If the platoon needed rope, Harper would swipe it out of the supply store. He magically found extra batteries they needed some. He was the sort of “scrounger” seen in countless Hollywood movies who could come up with spare parts.
In the fall of 2003, Harper was a 31-year-old Navy veteran who had returned to active duty after 9/11. Harper had served previously in the US Navy from 1992 to 1996 when he was assigned to SEAL Team Three. On October 2, 2001, he reenlisted as the SEALs and was assigned to Foxtrot Platoon. He was a type that was prevalent in Naval Special Warfare before 9/11. “He’s a nier-do-well,” said Alex Krongard, the former commanding officer of SEAL Team Seven. “He's not the best SEAL out there, but he wasn't the worst either.” There was something in his personality that drove people over the edge. Harper was quick-witted and good with a biting insult. Cerrillo wanted nothing to do with him. “We couldn’t sit in the same room together,” he says.
There were three kinds of cultures in the SEALs. There were what Cerrillo liked to call the Frogmen. A Frogman was someone who was always there for his teammates. He got down and he got dirty. Frogmen got the job done. They worked hard and played just as hard. They partied during BUD/S and then showed up for training hungover without slowing down. They drank enough to kill a normal human, and the only reason they survived was because they were in such phenomenal shape. Frogmen chased skirts and cheated on their girlfriends and wives. They hung out at strip bars. They dated strippers, and one of Cerrillo’s teammates married a pornstar. Frogmen got into barfights. And then they went back to work and did it all over again. Cerrillo considered himself a Frogman. “I’m no angel,” he says.
There were what he called the “SEALs.” The SEALs, in Cerrillo’s mind, only cared about their careers. They were obsessed with training and athletic performance. Many SEALs reached the top and retired with honors without ever seeing combat. They were the golden boys. Movie-star handsome. The ones Naval Special Warfare would trot out at parades or public events. But they weren’t Frogmen.
Then, there was the smallest and most toxic of the three cultures. The dirtbags. The hustlers. Always looking for an angle, always trying to find a way to make money. They stole Navy weapons and sold them. Some were drunks; some dropped Molly and took ketamine. They took steroids. “Dirt is good,” was their philosophy. If you got dirt on someone, you had leverage over them.
The dirtbags were the dirty secrets of Navy SEAL culture. There weren’t many dirtbags, but they could be extremely destructive. Jeff Harper was a dirtbag.
In Iraq, people noticed that things started to go missing when Harper was around. It was small stuff at first. A flashlight. A water bottle. Then Cerrillo couldn’t find his PEQ-2 night scope. The PEQ-2 was a $1,000 device that attached to the top of his M-4 rifle. It sent out a laser-targeting beam that could only be seen with night vision goggles. Cerrillo suspected Harper had swiped it.
One day, a member of Foxtrot platoon, Ryan Dooley, couldn’t find his body armor. SEALs are issued two types of body armor. One is the standard ceramic plate armor. The other, worn underneath it, was a lighter, more flexible bulletproof vest called a "9 Mil Vest.” Dooley’s 9 Mil Vest was missing. The whole camp was searched. No trace of it was found.
Half the platoon was in the western desert, preparing to begin operations under a new task unit leader. Cerrillo had transitioned to Mosul. Harper and Dooley were among those who had stayed at Camp Jenny Pozzi to help out with operations in and around Baghdad. In February, they were ordered to join their teammates in the Al Anbar in the west of the country.
On the night Harper, Dooley, and the remainder of Foxtrot platoon were leaving Baghdad, a group gathered to say goodbye. Before boarding a bus to take them to the western desert, the SEALs were ordered to muster with their gear. A muster meant their equipment was going to be checked. The groups gathered in the Sand Pit where the SEALs played volleyball during the day and questioned detainees at night. While they waited, one of them joked about Ryan’s missing 9 Mil Vest.
“Hey, Klepto, you don't happen to have it, do you?" asked Jason Torrey, a leading petty officer from another SEAL platoon.
It was a joke, or at least it was supposed to be. There was no way a SEAL would steal a teammate’s body armor. Or was there? A strange look passed over Harper’s face. He started fidgeting and tried to cover his vest. Holy shit, some of the SEALs started thinking to themselves. Maybe he really did steal that vest.
"Let's see your vest, Klepto.”
Still half-joking, Torrey lifted Harper’s jacket, pretending to search him. Inside, DOOLEY was written in big block letters on the 9 Mil Vest.
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