Michael SatterfieldThe neon lights of Las Vegas burned like phosphorescent nightmares against the desert sky as I made my way to Battlefield Vegas for an event called the Blackwater Boondoggle. My friend Caleb had lured me into a world of intrigue, his world, where scars whispered secrets, and danger dripped from every word, the world of private military contractors. Today, Blackwater has a retail division selling a cornucopia of hardware from rifles to ammo to patches and tee shirts. This is why Blackwater attended Shot Show, to expand its retail empire. A brand built on the mystery and romance of the mercenary, brave men of adventure, soldiers of fortune, willing to fight and die for a price.
It was with this as the backdrop that I set out from my hotel, headed towards the event location, where for a fee your average man off the street can fire fully automatic weapons, drive a tank over a taxicab, or for those really seeking adventure, get taken out to the desert to shoot a belt-fed machinegun out of a moving helicopter. All of which sounds like a good time.
The setting was surreal, like the fever dream of a war junkie. IN-N-Out Burger trucks served up fast food against a backdrop of grizzled men, their eyes haunted by distant battlegrounds. These were no ordinary men; they were the remnants of special forces, the kind that move in shadows and disappear into the night. And then there were those unmistakable figures, current Blackwater Operators, modern-day mercenaries who, depending on who you talk to, are heroes or villains.
As I stepped into the twisted carnival of the Blackwater Boondoggle, my eyes fell upon a man who seemed to have been plucked from the pages of a dime store novel. He was a vision, in a tight-fitting purple suit that clung to his frame like a second skin. White snakeskin boots adorned his feet, while gold chains dripped from his neck like a 70s pimp. If Hollywood ever needed a prototype for an arms dealer, this was their guy. His entourage stood on the sidelines, they too appeared to be outsiders, invited guests, but clearly not part of the Blackwater family.
The backdrop for the Blackwater Boondoggle:
The air was thick with tales of battle and the acrid scent of gunpowder mixed with double-doubles. Conversations swirled around me like a symphony of madness, each note a war story wilder than the last. Men with haunted eyes spoke of firefights in nameless deserts, of covert operations that existed only in the shadows. I sat there taking in all the conversations around me until a young man sitting across from me at the rows of tables said, “Who are you?” I explained that I was a journalist, and he quickly pointed out that his dad was “OG Blackwater” and today held some prominent role in the company and that the Blackwater Boondoggle doesn’t usually get journalists. Behind the kid, a projector ran a video loop highlighting the brand’s “work” over the years and its new product lines for the consumer market.
Once the word was out that I was a journalist, their suspicion was palpable, like a predator sensing a trespasser in its territory. They eyed me with a mixture of curiosity and caution, wondering if I was here to write some kind of hit piece, looking to expose their secrets or twist their tales. But amidst the war stories and the wary glances, a camaraderie simmered, born from the shared experiences of time I spent in Central America and Southeast Asia. Still, while I there shooting photos with a camera, they visited with other duties.
Hours ticked by in a whirlwind of adrenaline-soaked conversations and alcohol-fueled confessions. Laughter mingled with the faint echoes of traffic on I15 and small arms fire inside the shooting range as the night wore on. I headed inside to see the wall of firearms that were available to shoot, the Thompson submachine gun was calling my name. But before I got in line to shoot the iconic WWII iron, I was pulled aside by one of the men I had spoken to earlier. I heard stories from the Middle East, Africa, Asia, and beyond. I was just a fly on the wall; stories of war and lost friends would eventually fade into stories about family, coming home, and finding an extended family at Blackwater. Looking at it that way, the Blackwater Boondoggle was a company picnic, just at a gun range in Las Vegas.
With a heart heavy with the weight of untold stories, I decided it was time to retreat from Battlefield Vegas. I hailed an Uber, leaving behind the enigmatic figures and the cacophony of war stories. As the city lights blurred into a neon streak, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had glimpsed a world few ever see—the world of the mercenary, a world where the line between right and wrong is only blurred by those who were never there. As a civilian, it is easy to sit back and imagine what you would do when faced with life-and-death situations in far-flung corners of the world. But, thankfully, most of us will never know those hardships, thanks to this rare breed of man built for battle.
As I returned to the sanctuary of my hotel room, I opened a memento of my brief sojourn into this world of shadows—a T-shirt that bore the words, “I went to the Blackwater Boondoggle to become a mercenary, and all I got was this t-shirt.” It was a fitting reminder that sometimes, the most surreal experiences come not from the pages of a novel but from simply saying yes to an opportunity to have dinner with mercenaries.
