‘I was about to say—’ Hislop continued — ‘we’d stop them at sea. In international waters. No problems of trespass, and no tracks or traces. We’d intercept, take Swale away from them — I don’t know what you’d want done with the others—’
‘What if identification of their boat isn’t possible, Charles?’
‘Well, at a pinch, with cooperation from the Crabs—’
Prentice translated, ‘Royal Air Force.’
‘Nimrods, for surveillance, then to spot the target and guide my blokes to it.’ He looked at Prentice. ‘Or if Nimrods weren’t available, maybe the Cousins might help. Saratoga’s there now, isn’t she — with E-2s on board—’
Salvesen said, ‘Sounds as if you’re about to save our bacon, Major.’
‘Well.’ The SB man qualified, ‘If we can get out there in time. It’d mean moving extremely fast.’
7
In the joint Operations Centre in the Ministry of Defence, Charles Hislop spoke quietly, privately, into a green telephone — a protected line — in the corner near the door.
‘All right, Harry. Get on with it, set it all up on those lines, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. But Harry, listen now…’
He glanced round into the space behind him, at the half-dozen men around a narrow central table, and had his glance met by an impatient stare from the major-general who this evening was Duty Operations Director; he was currently occupying the red-upholstered, metal-frame chair that was officially reserved for the Minister. Between him and the end of the table another chair had just been vacated by an SAS major, the duty Special Forces Adviser; he was returning to it now, scanning a computer readout. This was the Special Forces section of the JOC, which comprised a number of component offices separated by partitions which in a full-scale emergency, anything like a real war, could be taken down, converting the whole area into one big Ops room.
This was effectively a ways-and-means conference. The political considerations had been taken to higher levels by the Foreign Office DUS, Paul Salvesen, and meanwhile from here the military conclusions would wind up as proposals for submission to the Minister of Defence and Chief of the Defence Staff. Hislop checked the time — 1802 — as he turned back to resume his private conference with his own second-in-command, a hundred miles away on the Dorset coast.
‘Harry, assume it’s on, except for the signal to go. You said the boats are loaded? Right, get the truck away — now. The rest of the gear can follow with the lads, by helo… Yeah, two Wessex, they’ll be coming up to you from Eastleigh. Have the team ready, Harry, geared up and briefed — OK, as far as you can brief them…’
Some would be on the base already — those who’d had the weekend duty — but others would be at their homes nearby, would at this moment be taking leave of wives, children, girlfriends. Knowing from experience that they might be gone for a few hours or for several weeks: and knowing not a damn thing else…
Two two-man crews for the Sea-Rider inflatables and two four-man boarding parties, making twelve ranks in all.
Despite the fact the use of the Squadron hadn’t yet been ordered.
It would be, though, it couldn’t not be. Hislop thought. The threat plainly had to be countered — even the civil servants had seen that much; and just as plainly it was a job that only the SBS was equipped to handle. He’d been sure of it when he’d left that last meeting. Salvesen had been dashing off to see his Permanent Under-secretary, and the PUS would as likely as not been in touch with Downing Street by now; while Hislop had got straight through to Poole, issued a Warning Order and told his 2 i/c to call an ‘R’ Group — R for reconnaissance — which was the meeting now in progress down there.
The major-general murmured, as he rejoined this meeting, ‘You’re trying to be in two places at once, Hislop. Might be more productive to conclude our business here first?’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Looking over other men’s heads at the teletext TV monitor on its bracket at the far end of the room. Nothing of relevance on it at the moment, no report of any fracas on some Middle East airport for instance. Hislop added, running his eyes over the computer displays lining the right-hand wall, ‘Fact is, though, we could be too late already.’ He looked round at the SAS major: ‘What was that, Frank?’
‘Your point about asking the Cousins for help in the air. Obvious question comes back — what’s wrong with Nimrods?’
‘Nothing at all, I hope. Except we’re told — that signal in your hand — only two machines out there. If we can have them both full—time, and guarantee air-worthiness — fine. But we must have it round the clock. Also — well, frankly the Hawkeye’s capability — look, we might have to track them a long way over, and if there’s any Syrian air about it could be a lot easier — safer, I’d imagine – from the kind of stand-off position the E—2s could operate from?’
‘Aren’t we talking about an interception in international waters?’
‘We are, sir.’ He nodded to the general. ‘Aiming for that. But we’re starting late even if we could start this minute.’ He nodded towards the telephone he’d been using. ‘I’m trying to have my chaps on the top line. The opposition have had about a day’s start on us, and the Syrians claim thirty-five miles of territorial water, which doesn’t leave a lot to spare between Syrian and Cypriot. In places, none, there’s an overlap. Obviously we’d rather stop them in deep water… Which brings me back to the fact that the air’s vitally important, Nimrod availability may be uncertain, and we know the USS Saratoga’s there with Hawkeyes embarked.’ He paused for breath. ‘All right. I know, I’m looking for belt and braces, but we can’t intercept them if we don’t locate them!’
The general half-smiled. ‘We’ll try it on, anyway.’
Meaning he’d pass the request with the rest of the meeting’s proposals to the Minister and the CDS, who if he agreed would most likely make a scrambled transatlantic call to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs at the National Command Centre in Washington. From there on, if the Cousins looked favourably on the idea, the 6th Fleet’s commander would get orders directly from the Pentagon.
Hislop added, ‘Obviously our request for Nimrod patrols still stands. To start at daylight tomorrow morning. And who knows, with a bit of luck we might get an early sighting. In which case we won’t bother them.’
‘Question here that needs answering—’ the Special Forces Adviser ticked the next line on his agenda — ‘is what action’s to be taken, following interception, in regard to (a) Swale’s companions, (b) their boat.‘
The general glanced at Hislop. The point had been touched on earlier, but they’d lost it in some interruption. ‘What’s your view on this?’
‘Only that once we’ve snatched Swale, if this afternoon’s assessment of enemy intentions is accurate they’re knackered aren’t they. Plan’s defused, we can call it a day.’
‘Allowing the rest to sail off into the sunset?’ The DOD showed surprise. ‘What if the appreciation is wrong and they could do it without him? And other British nationals in the team, for all we know?’
‘If there were, they’d be removed with Swale, but—’
‘If I might make a point?’
A middle-aged civilian: thickset, balding, sporting a Gunners’ tie. This was the Secretariat Officer, the basics of whose function amounted to liaison between this Ministry and the Foreign Office.
The general nodded. ‘Go ahead, Mr Bennett.’
‘Well, they’re terrorists, potentially highly dangerous, and I’d have thought — well, isn’t it likely they’ll resist the boarding operation?’
Hislop nodded. ‘Very likely.’
‘I’d have thought that gave us the answer. They’re our committed enemies, and if they show fight — I’d have thought you’d deal with them appropriately. In the course of the action their boat might well be sunk — right? — so there’d be no mess, no repercussions, and no threat remaining. Eh?’
The DOD stated at Hislop, inviting comment. ‘The final decision
won’t be made in this room, of course, but—’
‘Well.’ It might have been, to all intents and purposes, if the Minister had been present. Except he’d probably have wanted to take advice. Hislop hoped the ramification wasn’t going to take all night: his hope was that Salvesen’s chief would have gone to Downing Street, to cut some corners. He answered the general, ‘Mr Bennett’s point’s logical enough — kill them, destroy their boat, threat eliminated and no backwash. But we aren’t in that line of business, frankly, it’s very important that we don’t act like terrorists ourselves — the way these guys are trying to make us look, in point of fact.’ He added, ‘OK — if we’re shot at, we shoot back. And we aren’t trained to miss. Then we’d end up with bodies on our hands, and in that event you’re right, we wouldn’t leave signatures, we’d — well, common sense, isn’t it… But apart from that contingency, which might be forced on us, the alternatives on which I’m asking for a directive are should we remove Swale — and any other Brits, certainly — and let the rest go on their way, or should we arrest them all, take them and their boat into one of the sovereign bases? Dhekelia, I suppose. If we want to take the thing apart and establish who was behind it?’
*
A quarter-hour later the JOC meeting’s conclusions were on their way to the Minister, with copies to the Chief of the Defence Staff, Commandant-General Royal Marines and Chief of the Air Staff.
If the Minister didn’t like the proposals, if he developed cold feet and sent the plan back — well, you could forget it, Hislop thought, everyone could run home and put their heads under the bedclothes.
Back at the green telephone, waiting for his secure-line reconnection with Poole, he checked the time. A few minutes short of six thirty.
‘Ah, Harry… it’s sewn up here, now, except we have to wait for approval from above, which with luck may not be long coming… Listen — on the equipment side, if you haven’t thought of this already — they might have to scuttle whatever kind of craft these people are using, so better take along PE and accessories.’
‘PE’ being plastic explosive, ‘accessories’ such items as igniters, Cordtex and timers. Cosgrave noted that down, although he was fairly sure it would be on the list already. Adding a note against it, the name of Marine Hall… ‘We’re about done here, too. Most of ’em are in, the boats are on the way— ’
‘Who are you giving Ockley as his number two?’
‘Colour Sergeant Kelso, sir.’
‘Couldn’t be better. Ockley there yet?’
‘Here beside me.’
Tell him I’ll meet him in Lyneham. Any particular problems there?’
He couldn’t think of any: except not having much idea what the task was. He said, ‘I suppose when you fill in the gaps—’
‘Exactly. Listen — got a photographer on the team?’
‘Sergeant Wilkinson?’
‘Right.’ Photographs came in handy. sometimes, as evidence in post-mortems, reconstructions of events… ‘All right, Harry. I’ll have the helos sent up to you now.’
*
Harry Cosgrave — he was a captain, as were most of the men present — hung up the phone and went back to his chair at the top end of the battered old dining-table which stood centrally in the shabby conference room. Giving them the gist of what the CO had been telling him — which still left a lot of detail unanswered. The CO had obviously been immersed in the business all day, but Cosgrave had his sketchy briefing in somewhat disjointed telephone calls and he still felt that he was flying blind.
But then, instant reaction to crisis calls was the name of the game, and by no means unusual.
Cosgrave said, ‘CO’ll be meeting the team at Lyneham. Ben, you can throw out any gear you think’s superfluous in the light of that more detailed briefing, to come back on the truck that’s taking the boats up.’ He looked down the length of the table: ‘Mr Henderson, check what’s down there for weapons, will you?’
Blackie Henderson, the Squadron’s sergeant major, Warrant Officer II, knew the answers without having to consult his notes.
‘SA80 Individual Weapons for all ranks. M79 grenade-launcher, one per boat, ditto LAWS.’
SA80 IWs were submachine guns, 4.85mm, still quite new on the scene. And an LAW was a light anti-tank weapon, disposable. When you’d fired it you’d drop it over the side. If you fired it: if the boat they were going to intercept made that necessary.
Cosgrave was reading through the rest of his scribbles, which dated from the CO’s first two calls and weren’t all that legible. Discussions on other points were in progress around the table; the officers present speaking for Intelligence, Signals, Operations, Logistics, Admin. Plus the sergeant major at the other end, painstakingly recording it all in longhand, and Ben Ockley who’d been the last to arrive and whom the CO had nominated as team leader. He’d been reading the script over Blackie Henderson’s shoulder, and he was coming up to Cosgrave’s end now, pulling up a chair beside the 2 i/c. Movements loud, echoey on the bare floorboards. This was a prefabricated building, single storey, nondescript enough to be mistaken for a youth-club headquarters in some run-down city centre. Maps covered all the wall space, doubtless also covered a lot of cracks and blemishes.
‘Drybags over DPMs?’
Drysuits, and DPM stood for Disrupted Pattern Material, camouflage-pattern khaki-green overalls. At the moment, Ockley was wearing drill trousers, sweatshirt and anorak, with a very scruffy pair of trainers on his feet. Straight from a relaxed Sunday evening at home with his wife and baby daughter.
Cosgrave had nodded. ‘But fly out in uniform. Can’t guess how long you may be at Akrotiri, but allow for two or three days. Weapons — you just heard. Three magazines of SA80 per man, and three anti-personnel grenades.’
Checking his notes…
‘Oh, one set of PNG in each boat, also starscopes.’
‘But touch wood the interception will be in daylight.’
‘Let’s hope.’ He agreed, and added, ‘But we’re also giving you VHF in the boats, just in case you need it.’
Night interception by para drop with Sea-Riders wasn’t all that simple. Not even with the aid of passive night goggles. The lightweight kind they’d take with them would extend night vision up to about 800 metres — if the lenses could be kept dry — but even then there were problems.
Ben Ockley, Cosgrave noticed without any great degree of surprise, wasn’t allowing those or any other problems to upset him. There was a glint of enthusiasm in those deepset, wide—spaced eyes, a — Cosgrave guessed — joy inside that tough skull. He hoped the CO was being wise in giving Ockley this break. He could follow the reasoning: the fact it was high time Ben had a chance to prove himself — having been unlucky on a few previous occasions — and that he was a first-class soldier, natural leader and — another essential quality in the SB Squadron — a fast thinker on his feet. So why not give him the job? The answer — Cosgrave’s anyway, but the CO must have taken it into consideration — was that Ben had about as much political acumen or finesse as a bull-terrier.
It wasn‘t a bad analogy. Looking at him analytically you could well imagine that if he’d been a dog he’d have been one of that breed. And at that, one of the sort you’d keep on a chain, muzzled.
Actually he looked exactly what he was — a cold-eyed, hard-headed, extremely professional young officer, whom you wouldn’t want to run into on a dark night, or even in broad daylight, if you weren’t on his side. And it could be argued that the CO had picked just the right job for him. The task was simply to lead a para drop into the sea, intercept a boat — guesses were that it would be some kind of fast launch — grab a Brit out of it and bring him back. The whole task to be performed at sea and with any luck out of sight of land: thus no sensibilities to offend, no foreigners to annoy. In this respect it might be said that the CO hadn’t so much picked the man for the job, as the job for the man.
Not that Ben was stupid. Not in the least. He was from Preston, Lancashire,
and at Manchester University he’d won a good degree in Maths and Physics. It just happened to be a fact that the sort of jobs the Special Boat Squadron was asked to carry out, in peacetime, did very often call for those qualities of diplomacy which Ben Ockley lacked.
Or maybe — Cosgrave wondered privately — disdained?
‘I’ll have Sticks Kelso with me — right?’
‘Yes.’ Cosgrave nodded. Other consultations were in progress around the table. ‘I suppose you’ll give him the second boat. That’ll leave you the choice of Sergeants Hosegood or Wilkinson to have with you.‘
Ockley dug in his pocket for a coin. ‘Heads it’s Hosegood, tails Wilkinson.’ He span the coin, caught it and slapped it down. ‘Hosegood.’ Cosgtave had pushed the list of names towards him; Ockley added, glancing at it and not making any great effort in the selection, ‘And Marines Hall and Judge. Leaving Sticks burdened with Sergeant Wilki, Corporal Laker and Marine Teal. Serve him fucking well right.’
The sergeant major said, grinning, ‘Boats’ coxswains are Sergeant Hattry and Corporal Clark. Crewmen Marines Deakin and Kenrick.’
Ockley pretended to shudder. ‘My God.’ He scraped his chair back. ‘I’d best go and get ’em sorted.’
Get some food into them, he was thinking, letting the flimsy door slam shut behind him. That list of names was in his head, but they weren’t just names, they were men with faces, brains, personalities, quite exceptional individuals every one of them and his guys now, the team who’d pull off this simple job like the pros they were, and who’d better be fed now because God only knew what time of night they’d get to Lyneham; the RAF could be counted on to have shut down their kitchens, and it was a yomp of about a mile and a half across that great sprawl of airbase to the canteen, where if you were lucky and it happened to be open they just might not have sold the last Mars Bar…
‘Hey, Sticks!’
Colour Sergeant John Kelso. Still known as ‘Sticks’ because when he’d joined the Royal Marines at the age of sixteen he’d been enrolled as a Junior Bugler, drummer-boy, for which the traditional form of address was ‘Sticks’, and the sobriquet had — so to speak — stuck.
Special Deception Page 14
