Reporting Under The Gun in an Ambush Zone

For me, Friday's ambush was the Mother of All Close Calls.

"They're shooting," Falah said. He looked in the rear mirror. Falah was cool. Neither of us was armed. We never are. He's a former military officer who has worked for The Post since the occupation began. Because Falah knows every road in the country and every shortcut in traffic-choked Baghdad, we call him King of the Drivers. He liked that nickname and liked to travel all around Iraq, to get away from the office with its dreary round-the-clock broadcasts of sensationalist reports from Arabic-language TV and the BBC's stately procession of bad news. I am alive because of him.

After the first fusillade, the taxi roared up beside the driver's door. I was shocked at the determined rage on the mustached face a rifleman who was riding shotgun. I saw shell casing jump from his weapon. He seemed to be aiming first at the front wheel, then at the cabin. He missed the tire, but a bullet grazed the windshield of our vehicle, which is equipped with armor plating and bulletproof glass on the outside as well as inside, dividing the front cabin from the cargo area.

The taxi dropped back. The killers fired again -- this time the shooters popped their heads out and unloaded their AKs out both sides of the car. One tire was flattened, and our SUV wobbled. "It's all right, we can keep going," Falah said.

The taxi pulled over to my side. I slid down in my seat, butt toward the door thinking: "Well, there's more meat on that side." This time they didn't shoot. Having trouble aiming, they had decided to race ahead and park.

I popped back up in my seat.

When the taxi stopped on the highway shoulder, two of the men opened their doors and awaited our passing. "Let's rip off the doors," I suggested to Falah. Our conversations were without emotion. No raised voices. We could have been discussing which exit to take on the Beltway.

"Hmmm," Falah said. "I am afraid we will hurt our own car."

So we kept going. Their plan didn't work very well; only one bullet nicked the door above my head. I swore and told Falah: "They are going to shoot until they kill us." It struck me I would not see my wife and child again. I thought to myself, I can't break down right now.

Falah said, "Yes. Maybe they wanted to kidnap before, but now they want to kill."

The taxi-turned-war-wagon approached again from behind. We had one small advantage: The riflemen seemed afraid Falah would ram them. He deftly kept the SUV weaving to block them from passing.

But they kept shooting and with each volley, the spider-web pattern on the rear window kept growing until the panel looked like a translucent marbleized sheet. Finally, the window burst. Then the riflemen let fly.

The thuds now reached the inner armor plating and the reinforced window that protected the cabin. Later, we would count a dozen bullet scars. A second tire burst, and the SUV began to spin. I thought: That's it, we're done.

When we stopped I wanted to get out and run for the reeds in a nearby canal. Falah shouted for the first time: "Don't!" He still thought it safer to stay in our armored confines.