by Richard Mann
They were up before 4.00 a.m. rechecking their kit and blackening their faces to stop reflective light, before changing into traditional Arab clothing. At 4.00 a.m. they moved stealthily into the cool desert night, a large moon lit the sky. A Bedouin friend of Abd Al-Wali smiled showing rotten teeth, then beckoned for them to follow him. As they made their way in silence, the only people they met were two Arabs, but they were ignored. They were careful to keep their magazines in their belt kit underneath the robe and their M16s covered.
At 4.30 a.m. they were at the target and started taking up positions. Outside the mud hut were four guards, but two of them were sleeping, slumped against the mud hut wall. No sign of any other activity. Des and Artie took up positions at the front of the house, hiding in an alleyway, while Peter and Vinnie, along with Sebastian, moved quietly up the street, down a narrow gap between two houses, and went to the rear of the building, hiding behind a low wall.
All was quiet. The moon was still out and lit the night; there was no cloud cover. A mouse scurried in front of them. Then two rats started sniffing Vinnie’s boots before they became bored and went on their way. There were just fifty yards between them and the target house. They absorbed all activity around them, every shadow where someone might be hiding, every noise.
Peter beckoned Vinnie to fit the charge. It was 4.40 a.m.—twenty minutes to zero hour. Sebastian shifted nervously behind Peter as they watched Vinnie place the charge, then stoop low and get back to safety. Peter had decided to use Sebastian as backup in case they needed it, but he was nervous about using him for the main assault, he just wasn’t up to it.
‘All set,’ whispered Vinnie as he got back behind the wall. Sebastian crossed himself and said a prayer for them while they waited.
It was 4.50 a.m., ten minutes to zero hour.
They had no other comms so Peter assumed Des and Artie were good to go. At the front of the mud hut the two terrorists who were asleep were now awake sharing a cigarette. Peter could see smoke drifting over the mud hut, and the faint smell of cigarette smoke touched his nostrils.
It was now 4.55 a.m. Five minutes to zero hour.
At that moment, Peter could hear the sound of bells and looked round to see a young shepherd boy, walking towards them, the bells around the goats jingling away in the silent night. They crouched lower down behind the wall further to get out of sight. The shepherd boy stopped behind the mud hut with his goats and looked around him, unaware of the explosives just ten feet from him. Peter looked at his watch nervously.
Now it was 4.59 a.m., one minute to zero hour.
‘Sebastian, I want you to grab that boy, and keep him quiet till it’s over. GO NOW!’ Peter whispered. Sebastian crept forward behind the boy and put his hand over his mouth. The boy struggled, eyes wide with terror, as Sebastian dragged him back behind the wall the others were crouching behind.
‘Ten seconds,’ said Peter.
They readied their M16s on semi-automatic, as Peter looked at his watch.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Nothing.
Peter looked at Vinnie, horror-struck.
The charge had not gone off. Peter could not afford this mission to fail they had come this far, walked across a desert, nearly died, only to fail again.
‘Follow me!’ shouted Peter as he rushed to the rear wall of the mud hut, clutching his M16, closely followed by Vinnie. Peter could hear rapid bursts of fire from Des and Artie from the front of the mud hut as he rushed at the rear wall and using his bare fists, punched two holes in the rear wall. A second later he had made a hole large enough to get through. They rushed in, threw two stun grenades making a loud bang, and saw four pairs of shocked white eyes looking at them, eyes watering from the smoke—with the Ambassador on a low bed.
Everything seemed to move in slow motion as Peter and Vinnie dropped the four terrorists in two seconds flat, each downed with a double tap. Then they dragged the frightened Ambassador out of through the hole and back to the safety of the low wall.
They could hear firing from the front of the house and panicked shouting in Arabic, but then it went quiet. Then shots were heard from inside the house, and the sound of running boots as Des and Artie came rushing through the door to the backroom and out the hole in the wall.
‘All clear!’ shouted Des.
Peter retrieved a mobile he had borrowed from one of the friendly Bedouin and called the commander at RAF Al Udeid Airbase.
‘We have Hotdog. Repeat we have Hotdog. Require immediate Evac. Over.’ He then gave his coordinates breathing a sigh of relief.
Chapter 16
Justice is Done
The base commander had put a crate of beers, packed in ice, on the C130 Hercules bringing them home, which they demolished in good order.
‘Ice cold in Alex,’ said Peter as he raised a one-litre bottle of Becks to Vinnie. Vinnie burped and did a good impression of his arch-enemy, Lieutenant Ratti. They all laughed, even Sebastian.
Then Peter raised his beer again. ‘Here’s to Mad Mike and Baz—fallen heroes, may they rest in peace.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Sebastian. They all clinked their beers and became silent, remembering their fallen comrades—the missions, the piss-ups and the football matches.
Then they slept for a while, but Peter was wide awake, he didn’t sleep much, or rather he didn’t need much sleep. Had Pencilneck deliberately sabotaged the mission, was he in league with the terrorists, or was he just incompetent? Was he responsible for the death of Mad Mike and Baz?
They were now back at the British base in Qatar, RAF Al Udeid, sitting alone in the mess—which was more like a restaurant—laughing, eating and joking. Vinnie then did a very good impression of Pencilneck, which Peter thought was very funny. Then Peter did his impression of Pencilneck which made Vinnie fell off his chair, and Des, Artie, and Sebastian all fell about laughing again.
As they recovered from their fits of laughter, Peter thought about how they had not seen the object of their merriment since they got back—which was unusual.
He was obviously avoiding them.
He had chatted with Ahmed and Saunders when he arrived back at the base, and they had apologized profusely for the shocking planning cock-ups. Peter had given a full report to SAS Colonel Bradley, which filtered down to Sir Nigel at M16, being a joint mission. But Peter felt uneasy. Something wasn’t right.
He smelled a rat.
Then the coin dropped.
He walked away from the table to a quiet corner, retrieved the private number of Sir Nigel and dialled.
‘Goldbroom,’ came a curt reply.
‘It’s Morgan Sir.’
‘Ah Peter, I read your report. Tough mission.’
‘Yes, sir. I think we have a problem. It’s Ponsonby.’
Silence at the other end.
‘Go on.’
‘Things don’t stack up. Radios didn’t work, C130 crash, explosives didn’t work, scant intel on the targets. He has avoided me like the plague since I got back as if he wasn’t expecting to see me. I want you to run another financial check on him.’
‘He was clean. But I will do it again, and dig a bit deeper this time. I trust your instincts. I have had my eye on him for a while. I will meet you when you get back,’ Sir Nigel seemed reluctant as if he was hoping it wasn’t Ponsonby, his old Eton buddy.
Then the room went deadly quiet as they all looked in the direction of the door. Pencilneck, (Ponsonby) strolled in trying to look casual. As he came up to where they were sitting, there was a deathly silence, five pairs of eyes looking daggers at him. He was accompanied by two tough looking military police sergeants, who looked like they worked out every day.
Ponsonby shifted nervously.
‘Hi, chaps! Glad you made it back ok, a
nd great job on rescuing the Ambassador. The Saudi Arabian Government wishes to convey their thanks for your efforts.’ He coughed slightly.
‘Listen I know there were some shortcomings in the mission, but we have taken these on board for the future. We have learned lessons, and I have conveyed these to our Chief Sir Nigel and your Colonel Bradley, Sergeant Morgan. Why don’t you take a few days R and R (rest and relaxation) and we can talk again, about another mission.’ He coughed nervously again.
Peter’s demeanour began to change, and he seemed to grow in size. The menace oozed from every pore of his body as he stared at Pencilneck, who tried to avert his eyes, as Peter strode over to his target.
The atmosphere became heavy as thunder. Peter’s blue eyes blazed like fire as he now stood just two inches from Pencilneck, staring him out.
The thousand-yard stare.
Pencilneck’s eyes began to water, and he began to shake. The two military police sergeants took one step forward. Peter’s six-foot frame muscles flexed underneath his T-shirt, his blue eyes burned with fire. The military police took a step back, genuinely frightened.
‘Baz, Mad Mike, lost in the desert. Presumed dead. Why? Radios didn’t work—because you put the wrong fucking codes in. The C130 went down because Kojak never got any weather. We nearly died out there. This is the worst planned mission I have ever been on!’
Peter stepped back and punched Pencilneck in the face with lightning speed. He flew back through the air ten feet, landing on his back semi-conscious. He slowly got up on his elbows, his jaw broken, his nose bleeding; two teeth fell out.
‘I will have you court-martialled Morgan!’ as blood and saliva dribbled from his mouth. He nodded to the two policeman who moved towards Peter who, in the blink of an eye, pushed his hands out impacting them both in the chest, and the two men flew backwards twenty feet, landing hard on the floor, lying moaning, unable to move.
Then, to their shock and amazement, Kojak, the C130 pilot strolled in, looking sunburnt, thin and above all, angry. He nodded at Peter and his team then walked up to Pencilneck and gave him a good kick in the nuts. Pencilneck rolled up in agony, moaning incoherently.
‘Standard operating procedure: we never fly without weather reports!’ Kojak’s face turned red as he unleashed a verbal torrent at the hapless Ponsonby.
‘We could have avoided that weather. My co-pilot Chris died because of you, he was my friend. He has family, these men nearly all died out in the desert,’ pointing at Peter and his team. Ponsonby clutched his balls in agony, moaning.
Peter’s blood started to cool as he reflected on his actions. He had probably just ended his military career. He thought about Jennifer—she would not be pleased if he got a court-martial, he had a family to provide for. Still, it was done now, and he felt better for it.
Justice was done.
Chapter 17
On Her Majesty’s Secret Service
Peter, in civvies, is sitting in the SIS chief’s office in River House, London. Colonel Bradley has given him strict instructions to go to MI6 and see the Secret Intelligence Service chief himself. He has not seen Sir Nigel since the last meeting in the glass room.
The chief walks in, wearing a blue, three-piece pinstripe, ignores Peter, and sits himself down at his luxuriant desk, going through some papers. Then he looks up, and leans across his teak desk to speak to Peter. Sir Nigel Goldbroom is an old Etonian, his family has old money, and he is rich. He is much respected, having had a distinguished military career—a successful soldier rising to the rank of General before taking on the role of SIS Chief. He has seen real action and has the scars to prove it. He has that disciplined air about him that senior military officers have.
‘Sergeant Peter Morgan. How are you?’
‘I’m good sir thank you for asking.’
‘I didn’t update you on Ponsonby. He was the rat. You were right. Found out he had a girlfriend in Egypt, with links to known terrorists, and a secret bank account. We also found some emails on his home computer that link him to a Yemeni based terror cell. But we turned him. We turned him all right. We extracted a lot of information on the terrorist network in the Middle East. Thanks to you Peter.’
Sir Nigel walks over to the drinks cabinet inside an old wooden globe.
‘He is now a double agent, he feeds false information to the terrorists, and we get valuable intel in return. You have distinguished yourself, your Colonel Bradley thinks very highly of you. And so do I.’
‘So I won’t get a court-martial for hitting Ponsonby?’
‘No, no, don’t worry about all that. You did well,’ Sir Nigel laughed adding, ‘I gave him a good kick in the bollocks myself, but don’t tell anyone.’ Peter laughed, he was beginning to like Sir Nigel, he was the genuine article. He becomes more serious as he looks at his single malt whiskey selection.
‘Ice?’
‘Yes please,’ replied Peter.
‘With the agreement of your good Colonel, you are being seconded to MI6 permanently. The thing is Peter, we need you. I need your guile, strength, intelligence and your military skills. I’ve just had a meeting with the Prime Minister; we need to stop the terrorist funding network in Saudi Arabia. It will take tenacity, patience and possibly extreme violence. What do you think?’
‘Yes sir, I’m up for it.’
‘Good man, good man!’ Peter paused then added, ‘But Vinnie comes with me—he’s my wingman.’
Sir Nigel pours them both a drink. He would not normally do that for an operative, but there is something special about this man. Are all the stories true?
‘That’s fine, I will arrange it. I know you two work together.’ Peter tastes the whiskey. Single malt, it slides smoothly down his throat. Sir Nigel then becomes more serious.
‘All we have is a picture, we don’t know his name, we don’t know his whereabouts, but it’s probably Saudi, Riyadh perhaps. Your mission is to find him, get intel on this terrorist funding network, and then extract him for questioning. His code name is Goldilocks.’ Sir Nigel tops up his glass, adds some ice, then continues.
‘It will be a joint mission with the CIA. Your CIA contact is Captain Miller.’ Peter looks at the Goldilocks picture, trying to find something, anything. He looks at the one page of data about him. Real name: unknown. Associates: Ali Ab-Dala, Address: possibly Jeddah. Goldilocks last known address: unknown, maybe Riyadh. Then he looks back at the picture of Goldilocks. His super-vision spots something. There is a tiny label on his Arab robe, his thawb – it is almost undetectable.
‘Do you have a magnifying glass?’ asked Peter. Sir Nigel digs around in his drawer and finds a large old-fashioned magnifying glass. He hands it to Peter who focuses on a tiny label on the Arab garment.
‘There we go…’ Peter writes down a name.
‘Let me use your computer and Google this name, it’s the name of an Arab tailor, I think.’ Peter types in a name.
‘Abdul Gents Tailoring, King Fahd Dist., Riyadh.’
‘It’s come back with an address of a tailor, in downtown Riyadh sir. That will be my starting point.’
‘Excellent, well done.’ In five minutes flat, he has accomplished what his MI6 operatives had failed to do in one month. Sir Nigel shakes Peter’s hand warmly.
‘Good luck Peter.’
‘Thank you, sir. The other matter we discussed?’
‘Oh yes, your father, Frank Morgan. Now, what I am about to tell you stays in this office, ok?’
‘Agreed, sir.’
Chapter 18
Black Op
Sir Nigel poured Peter another drink, added some ice, sat looking at Peter for a while, then began.
‘It was during the Bosnian conflict in the 1990s. Back then I was a major in the SAS. Not many people know that.’ Peter’s respect for Sir Nigel grew enormously. He knew what it was like on these missions. He had been
bloodied in battle. A fellow soldier.
‘Your father, Frank. He served under me.’
Peter sat there open-mouthed in shock. ‘Go on,’ he said, hardly believing what he was hearing.
‘It was a black op mission. There was a Bosnian Serbian warlord who was committing atrocities in Bosnia and Herzegovina. His name was Jusak Mosovich and was heavily involved in the Srebrenica massacre, ending with the deaths of 8,000 innocent civilians. Our job was to take him out. Unofficially of course.’
Peter nodded, absorbed.
‘It was a four-man team, including Frank and me. I would provide reconnaissance and intelligence, and Frank would be the one to take the shot. Mosovich had stationed himself on Mount Igman on the outskirts of Sarajevo, so he and his cronies could take potshots at the innocent civilians. We knew his position was heavily defended with mortars and heavy ordnance, so we hid among some trees on a nearby mountain, watching their movements, waiting for an opportunity.’
Peter leaned forward, taking a gulp of whiskey.
‘We ate and slept in that cold trench on that mountaintop for three days watching, taking shifts. Frank had a Barratt 0.50 sniper rifle. I gave Frank wind and weather data so he could make his calculations for the shot. Fog was a problem, especially in the mountains.’ Sir Nigel paused, recollecting his memories.
‘On the third day, the fog had cleared, and we spotted him, directing mortar fire at Sarajevo. Frank, cool as a cucumber, took his shot, and I confirmed the kill—1.5 kilometres. He was a brilliant sniper. He had to shoot a bit higher because of the distance and the heavy damp air. We executed our exfil plan and headed to our RV, in the valley on the other side of the mountain, for pickup. But what we didn’t know was that they had spotted us. They were tracking us. And we didn’t fucking spot it Peter. We didn’t spot it!’ Sir Nigel banged his fist on the table, scattering some papers.
