by Richard Mann
‘I understand Peter, but we want you to find out who the rat is.’
They sit silent for a while.
‘Thing is Peter, I don’t trust anyone,’ Sir Nigel said unhappily.
‘Here is my personal number, it’s a secure line.’ Sir Nigel looks desperate, as he hands Peter a card.
‘I have one more condition,’ asks a poker-faced Peter.
‘Yes…what is it?’ asks a desperate-looking Sir Nigel.
‘I want brown leather trim on my DB9 please.’
Colonel Bradley and Sir Nigel nearly fall off their chairs as they laugh. ‘Excellent, excellent, priceless Peter. I will enjoy working with you,’ laughs Sir Nigel, ‘brown leather trim,’ he chortles—then his face became serious again.
As they come out of the MI6 building into the fresh air, Peter thinks he will enjoy working with Sir Nigel.
The Range Rover with blacked out windows pulls up outside.
‘You are going directly to RAF Lyneham and flying out tonight. Good luck Peter. I don’t have to tell you how important this mission is,’ says Colonel Bradley as he shakes Peter’s hand.
Chapter 9
Yemen
Peter and Vinnie are sitting in a bone-shaking C130 Hercules military transport with five other men from A Squadron of the SAS. It is a rushed operation—only twenty-four hours’ notice—and it shows. It was supposed to be two four-man teams, but one operative was pulled at the last minute. No explanation. The planning?
What planning? Peter and Vinnie have had no time to do their normal triple checks on their kit, as they normally do, apart from anything else. They have prepped their mission at the hangar back at the British base in Qatar - RAF Al Udeid, which is used to support military operations in the Middle East.
Peter’s mind races at a million miles per hour: not enough time to check their weapons (an M16 M203 with grenade launcher), ammunition, radios, maps, survival kit, food. Not enough time to beg, borrow and raid the stores for all the kit they need. Not enough time to get some food down their necks before the early evening flight. Something is bound to have been missed in the rush. He likes attention to detail, but he supposes time is of the essence. And last but not least, flaky MI6 liaisons.
A rat in the pack.
‘I cannot fight on an empty stomach,’ Vinnie keeps complaining.
Peter feels uncomfortable, in the noisy, cold C130—a flying box basically. No first-class loungers, no champagne and steak dinner, and certainly no pretty stewardesses. Peter wishes he was back home, but he is here, and he has to make the best of it, for his men. But he has that uneasy feeling in his gut again.
The noisy C130 hits some turbulence; Vinnie winces and whispers to Peter about his sore arse. Vinnie is not a good flyer. Peter is busy looking at the map again…remembering the rushed briefing by the CO. A young, fresh looking MI6 man, a short, thin officer type with a posh accent called Ponsonby.
One of the suspects.
Peter and Vinnie took an instant dislike to him and nicknamed him Pencilneck. He has no military experience—seen no action, has no idea what it’s like out in the field. Ahmed and Saunders are there, but they keep themselves busy, avoiding the SAS men, avoiding their gaze, then looking at Ponsonby. Peter thinks there is an agenda here, and he doesn’t like it.
Not one bit.
Pencilneck begins the briefing. ‘Chaps, some terrorists, probably Al Qaeda, are holding the Saudi ambassador to Yemen, possibly in a group of villages on the edge of the Rubʿ al-Khali desert. The villages are near Thamud in north-eastern Yemen. We don’t know the ambassador’s exact location, but we think it’s here.’ Pencilneck points to a map on a board. ‘We suspect there are least four terrorists, but there may be as many as twenty.’
Peter quickly calculates that it’s a thousand square miles of territory. Not enough intel he thinks, how can they plan their mission? Pencilneck continued.
‘He was kidnapped some twenty-four hours ago. Their demands are that we release ten Al Qaeda terrorists being held in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. We, of course, do not negotiate with terrorists. The Saudi government wants to keep this quiet, and there is a news blackout, so this has been classified as a black ops mission, no one will ever hear of it. So if you get in trouble, you know the score.’
The assembled men winced; if things go pear shaped they will leave us with our dicks hanging out, thinks Peter.
‘Mission code name is Desert Fox One which will be commanded by Sergeant Morgan. Wheels up in minus 30.’
Pencilneck gives a false smile at this point, trying to look confident, and receives dagger looks from the seven-man SAS team, particularly Vinnie. ‘If we don’t make it back I’m going to kill him,’ Vinnie whispers.
‘Vinnie, if we don’t make it back…never mind,’ Peter reassures Vinnie, ‘I will make sure we get back.’ Peter stands up to address Pencilneck.
‘Target appreciation. We need more intel. Number of terrorists, photographs, weapons. We need a precise location of our target; our men are at risk without more information. This is not how we work. We also need to formulate an immediate action plan, in case we get into trouble, besides this is a black op, we don’t want to be left with our dicks hanging out.’
His fellow SAS men admire Peter for his directness with the Rupert . They like him because he doesn’t stand for any nonsense from officers, and this has made him some enemies. Pencilneck looks with disdain at Peter as if to say, ‘Impudent fool.’
‘We will provide further intelligence as we get it, Sergeant Morgan. Dismissed.’
Out on the tarmac, Peter is chatting to the C130 pilot. He is nicknamed “Kojak” because he has a bald head and wears dark glasses, just like Telly Savalas. He looks worried.
‘Pete laddy, I’ve had no weather reports for Christ’s sake. I canna fly without up-to-date weather!’ says Kojak with a deep Scottish accent. Peter looks ready to kill as he speaks to his Scottish pilot, ‘We got fuck all on target appreciation. I don’t like this mission Kojak I don’t mind telling you, too many variables.’ Kojak nods.
At that moment Pencilneck strolls up, eyes squinting in the bright sunshine. ‘We need wheels up in twenty minutes.’
Kojak looks Pencilneck straight in the eye. ‘I canna fly without weather reports laddy, I’m responsible for these men, I need the METAR report before I fly!’
‘You will fly in twenty, and that’s official,’ is his reply, then adds, ‘Besides, there’s little chance of bad weather this time of year, particularly over the desert.’
Kojak shakes his head, muttering, as he strolls off to his C130 to make final checks. Peter looks at Pencilneck and swears that if this mission goes to rat-shit, he will do him himself. In military missions, especially the high-risk missions the Special Air Service carry out, any small error can soon escalate out of control. Men die. That’s why preparation is the key. Men’s lives depend on it.
Peter is responsible for these men. They are his brothers. Brothers in arms. Pencilneck looks at the fearsome presence of Peter,: bald-headed, blue-eyed, six-foot frame, built like Bruce Lee, the SAS man who is called “Bulletproof.” He has read his personnel record, and it is impressive, if insubordinate, but then again the SAS does not recruit “yes” men but operates a system of democracy, where each man can have his say, even if it contradicts a superior officer. Each SAS man is an elite soldier, qualified to have his say, at any planning meeting.
He gives that false smile again and goes to shake Peter’s hand, but Peter just looks at him, eyes burning.
Chapter 10
Halo Drop
Peter looked at Pencilneck in silence, with his thousand-yard stare, keeping his counsel. He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve like Vinnie, but he would ensure justice was done if required. It would be a HALO drop—high altitude, low opening—for secrecy and stealth so they could land quietly and surprise the terrori
sts. They would be flying at 30,000 feet.
On the C130, Peter looked across at Sebastian. He was rough looking, had a lived-in face, looked foul, but felt fair. He was a Geordie and had an earthy Geordie accent. He had turned religious, was reading a Bible, and had a nervous twitch. Peter was a bit worried about him, Sebastian had been showing signs of stress recently. Understandable, but that was the job they did, that was the discipline.
They were in the life and death business. Peter and Vinnie both liked him and looked to him for spiritual guidance and advice like a father figure. He would often read quotes from the Bible, and Peter would listen, trying to squeeze out an ounce of wisdom to explain what they did.
Peter looked at the other members of his team, all oddballs, all super fit, all with a touch of that resourceful fighting spirit: Baz, Mad Mike, Des, and Artie. He had forgiven Des and Artie their insults about his mother at RTI. Their maturity and experience would be useful on this mission.
On top of their flying suits, they had oxygen lines, and strapped to each of their backs was the BT80 Special Forces parachute. By necessity the straps were very tight, the last thing you need is a loose strap at 10,000 feet.
Peter recalled with humour, back at the RAF base on the ground, how Vinnie, with help from a parachute dispatcher, had put his para-pack on in a hurry and had trapped one of his nuts inside the strap. Peter, Sebastian and the dispatcher all rushed to adjust the strap and free his trapped nut. They all had a good laugh about it afterwards, but at the time, it was serious. Peter had never seen Vinnie look so relieved.
On their fronts were strapped their Bergen’s with the kit and an M16 strapped to their sides. They wore their helmets and breathing apparatus getting ready for the jump.
As they sat in the C130 checking their oxygen masks and lines, and making sure the parachute straps were okay, they felt a shudder as they hit another bit of turbulence. Vinnie swore again.
Then another shudder.
The noise inside the C130 was deafening and it was difficult to talk, so he could just about hear Kojak’s announcement that they were hitting turbulence.
‘No shit Sherlock’ thought Peter. The turbulence was even making Peter uncomfortable, and Vinnie, who didn’t fly well, was cursing every other second. Peter suddenly realised—they had just started the pre-breathing period before the jump, they needed to breathe 100% oxygen in order to flush nitrogen from their bloodstream, to prevent the risk of hypoxia and falling unconscious during the jump. But only for five minutes.
What if they had to jump now?
This mission was fucked up already.
Peter could hear thunder. Then he caught a flash of lightning. He couldn’t see it but he could feel and hear it. The hairs on his body stood on end under his suit with static electricity. His sixth sense told him they were in danger, he had that feeling in the pit of his stomach. His warrior instinct, his Caius nature kicked in.
He would have to act soon.
He looked at Vinnie. Then he felt the C130 get hit by a lightning strike. The plane lurched. As Kojak struggled with the C130 controls, he heroically righted the plane, but both port engines were now on fire. The C130 is as tough as old boots, and he had flown many times in bad weather, but this was different.
They were flying into hell.
Kojak shut down both port engines and was now flying on just two starboard engines. He adjusted his flaps in a desperate attempt to keep the plane flying through the storm and driving rain.
Peter could smell smoke.
‘Fuck!’ he said through gritted teeth.
The C130 lurched to the left this time, and Vinnie took off his oxygen mask just in time, as he threw up onto the floor. The plane shuddered again. Then it lurched to the right.
Then suddenly it dropped a hundred feet in a few seconds, in a freefall, then it came upward sharply. Harnesses broke as some of the men landed in various positions on the floor, bruised and battered. The Jumpmaster lay on the floor, injured. It couldn’t get any worse thought Peter.
But it did.
‘Starboard engine out!’ screamed Kojak. They were now flying on one engine. The SAS men, hard as nails, now looked nervous and looked to Peter as their natural leader. He read their minds.
He was responsible for these men, he trained with them, ate with them, drank with them, fought battles with them—they were like his brothers.
Then the C130 was hit by a lightning strike again, near the cockpit, and a fire started. Most of the instruments went dark, as Kojak grabbed the controls, hanging on for dear life, while the co-pilot struggled with a fire extinguisher, smoke filling the cockpit. They put oxygen masks on as Kojak glanced back, mindful of the men he was carrying.
‘We might need to jump!’ shouted Peter to the men and pointed to the tailgate of the C130. But it was closed. He had to talk to Kojak. He got up and grabbed the headset from the unconscious jumpmaster.
‘Kojak, release the tailgate, we need to jump now – before it’s too late!’
‘Releasing!’ shouted Kojak. Then Peter had an afterthought.
‘Where are we?’ shouted Peter above the noise around him.
‘In the desert, Empty Quarter, near the border with Yemen, about two hundred miles from target!’
Peter hesitated, ‘Empty Quarter. Shit—middle of nowhere!’
Then he saw flames and smoke coming from the cockpit. The tailgate was not moving.
‘Kojak, the tailgate!’ Peter shouted at the top of his voice.
Kojak tried the tailgate switch again. He burnt his hand as the fire spread in the cockpit.
But the tailgate would not move.
Peter stood up and walked awkwardly to the tailgate. If he couldn’t move it they were all dead. He knew his own strength, the strength of ten men, but was it enough?
He grabbed the tailgate as high as possible to get maximum leverage and pushed down with all his might. He could hear the tail-gate creaking under the strain – but it didn’t move. He pushed down again, like a bull – this time it moved an inch, creaking, and complaining.
He had some leverage now. Two inches, then a foot. Then it gave way and came down revealing the blackness of the night. Lightning streaks illuminating storm clouds.
He nodded to the team, and they checked their helmets, breathing apparatus and suits, then followed Peter to the edge of the tailgate ramp.
He stood there looking out into oblivion.
Out into darkness, into the maelstrom of the storm. He looked at Vinnie.
‘Follow me!’ he shouted.
And then he walked out from the tailgate and launched himself into the air, closely followed by Vinnie and the rest of the team. Visibility was non-existent, as he went through cloud, through rain, through the inky darkness. Flashes of light lit the clouds from the lightning. He would wait until he was through the storm before opening his parachute. It grew less windy, and the clouds started to clear, the thunder became less loud as he plummeted through the air. He thought he spotted Vinnie, but it was too dark to tell. He looked at his Day-Glo altimeter: 20,000 feet. Then the oxygen system packed in, nothing was coming through. His heart raced as he gulped for air.
Nothing.
He tore off the mask and gulped in the air as it rushed by him. But the air was thin. He needed to get to 10,000 feet, where there was oxygen. His heart was racing as he looked at his altimeter again.
Eighteen thousand feet. He needed to calm his breathing and slow his heart rate.
Seventeen thousand feet. His heart slowed as he speeded through the inky darkness, which was now strangely quiet.
The storm had passed. He felt faint and blacked out for a second.
Chapter 11
The Empty Quarter
Peter came to. He had to open his parachute now. He pulled the cord, and the silk parachute opened out above him.
Then he blacked out again.
He felt the warmth on his face as he was sleeping. It felt kind of dreamy like he was on a beach somewhere, somewhere nice like Spain. But it was quiet.
Deadly quiet.
And he was alone.
How long had he been out? Several hours at least.
Then he opened his eyes and was blinded by the sun - he still wasn’t sure where he was, as he dug around his pockets for his sunglasses.
Then reality hit him like a lightning bolt.
He sat up. He still had his jumpsuit on, and the parachute was still attached to him. He stood up and detached the parachute, and buried it in the hot sand. The sun blazed around him as he dug around his Bergen and changed into his desert smock and Shemagh (Arab) headscarf. He took a swig of water from one of his water bottles and surveyed the scene.
Sand dunes, great rolling sand dunes, golden brown against a light blue sky, for as far as he can see. He could feel the heat radiating from the sand. Then he remembered Kojak’s last words: ‘‘Empty Quarter, the desert.’
And it was quiet. Dead quiet. Just the soft sound of a light breeze sifting the sand around him.
On the transport to the Gulf from the UK, he had read up on the region, focusing on geography (his favourite subject). Rubʿ al-Khali, also known as the Empty Quarter, is a huge desert in the southern Arabian Peninsula, covering about 250,000 square miles, that includes portions of Saudi Arabia, United Arab Emirates, Oman, and Yemen, and is about the size of France. It holds roughly half as much sand as the Sahara, which is fifteen times the Empty Quarter’s size, but the Sahara is mostly comprised of rocky outcrops and gravel plains.
He remembered one fascinating fact. It is the largest area of continuous sand in the world. But it has rainfall of less than 1.2 inches and daily maximum temperatures average at 47 °C (117 °F), reaching as high as 51 °C (124 °F). Then he jolted awake as reality hit home.
