by Damien Lewis
“Not even the Americans?” I asked.
Dan shook his head. “There’s only one of them, anyway. We’re on our own.”
The villa was a two-story affair. The upper floor was locked, and it was full of the owners’ belongings. Apparently they had taken off at the start of the revolution, which suggested they were either friends of Gaddafi or at least associated with his regime. The ground floor had a kitchen, a lounge, a bathroom, plus two bedrooms. For the next three weeks this was where I was going to call home.
There was little food in the place, so I got Tom to fetch us some takeout barbecue chicken. Food eaten, Dan and I settled in the lounge for a proper chat. There was no beer in Benghazi, alcohol being pretty much banned, so we made do with tea. The nonexistent security measures at the Embassy were not Dan’s fault, or Blue Mountain’s for that matter. Even the appalling state of the Libyan guard force wasn’t our doing. The present bunch had been recruited by the State Department, a month or more before Blue Mountain got the contract, so we’d inherited the lot. But even so, we needed to massively shake things up.
“No two ways about it, Dan, that lot on duty today—they have to go.”
“We can’t sack ’em all until we have replacements.”
“Fine. So first priority is to get some new guys in. Plus the guys involved in the strikes over wages and the graffiti, they’ve also got to go.”
Dan said he’d call a meeting with Tom and a few of the guards that we could trust, and send out word that we were recruiting.
“Uniforms is the next thing,” I added, “just as soon as we’ve got a decent replacement force.”
“The boss has got uniforms en route from the U.K.,” Dan told me. “They’ll be here in a matter of days.”
“Great, ’cause with security the look is the half of the thing . . .”
I asked Dan outright if he’d had some kind of falling-out with the RSO. Nothing else could explain the no-food and no-Internet rules. Dan promised me that he hadn’t. It had been like this ever since he’d arrived. But we agreed that something wasn’t right here, and the only way to get to the bottom of it was to have a frank chat with the lone American at the Mission.
It was around eight o’clock when Dan told me he was off.
“Where you going?” I asked.
“Bed. I’ve been up since three A.M. If we aren’t on top of this contract within the sixty days, we’re finished. I’ve been working every hour God sends.”
It was fair enough. Dan looked exhausted, and he was glad to have another pair of hands here to help. He mentioned there was a security patrol that did the rounds of the villas at night, so not to worry if I heard any noise. I’m not a big sleeper, so I watched TV until around midnight. I retired to bed and was just nodding off when I heard some voices outside. I presumed it was the security that Dan had mentioned, and drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
I woke to the deafening noise of gunshots. They sounded so close I could have sworn the bad guys were in my room, or at the very least inside the villa. I dived out of bed and crawled to the window, keeping low as more rounds sparked off into the night. I could tell now that the gunfire was coming from the compound right outside my window. More rounds sparked off, the concussions of the weapon firing hammering into the villa walls. The noise was one I would recognize anywhere. It was the distinctive crack-crack-crack of AK-47 fire, the chosen weapon of militias, insurgents, and terrorists the world over.
I risked a quick glance over the sill, keeping low in case any rounds came punching through. I spotted two shadowy figures standing in our compound, trying to wrestle an assault rifle off of a third. What the hell was happening?
As they fought over the weapon, the muzzle sparked and more rounds went flying. I didn’t recognize any of the figures, though they were clearly locals. Even if I could work out what they were up to and they proved to be the enemy, what the hell was I supposed to do without any kind of a weapon?
As the firing continued, I did the only thing I could think of: I turned and leopard-crawled out of my room and across to Dan’s. I spied him crouched by the window.
“Dan, what the fuck?” I hissed.
He half turned, keeping one eye on the gunmen below. “They’re pissed again. Fucking jokers.”
“What d’you mean—they’re pissed again? Who’s pissed again?”
Pissed is British slang for drunk.
“The security guys. Every night they get whacko on this homemade hooch. This is the first time they’ve started loosing off with their weapons this close, though.”
I was angry now. Fuming. Every single thing about the setup here just seemed to be messed-up. But it wouldn’t help right now unloading on Dan. In any case, I didn’t think much of it was his fault. Dan had been dumped into a shitty situation. He was trying to make the best of it, and I liked the guy for that.
“Is it like this every night? Shooting inside the compound?”
“No. It’s a first. Normally they’re shooting outside.” Dan paused, then pointed at something. “It’s okay, Ahmed’s here—the owner. They’ll calm down now.”
It turned out that the guy who’d been loosing off all the AK rounds was the brother of Ahmed, the guy who owned the villa we were renting. I suggested that Dan tell Ahmed getting his brother to unload a mag of 7.62mm rounds into our walls wasn’t the best way to have us keep paying the rent. Dan promised that he would have words, and he reiterated that it would be fine now that Ahmed was here.
I returned to my room, but I couldn’t sleep. This was the first time in my life that I’d been in a hostile environment and not been armed. It was a bad feeling. If you have a weapon at least you can let the bad guys know very quickly that they’re going to get some if they keep up with their attack. Not here. The best I could manage was a knife from the kitchen, and that wasn’t going to cut it.
I needed a weapon, and I vowed that night that I was going to get one. Even a pistol would do. Otherwise I figured I was going to end up in an orange jumpsuit doing a walk-on part in an Al Qaeda video. Trouble was, our contract didn’t allow for us to be armed. Like the Libyan guards, we were supposed somehow to go about our tasks without a weapon. Well, sod that.
Either I got a gun, or I was resigning. I wasn’t prepared for my family to see me going out like that.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dan and I spoke over breakfast. He’d already had words with Ahmed. He’d told the villa owner that if we had another episode of gunfighting in the compound, then we were moving out. Ahmed had promised to get it sorted out. Even so, I knew we had to get ourselves properly armed.
“Dan, we need to get some weapons,” I told him.
“We can’t, mate. We’re not allowed.”
“I don’t give a damn. We need weapons.”
“We can’t. Libyan law doesn’t allow it and neither does the State Department contract.”
Dan went on to explain that while the militias who controlled the Benghazi streets seemed happy enough for every Libyan and his brother to carry a gun, it was a total no-no for foreigners. If they caught a foreigner with a weapon, it was a perfect excuse to throw you in jail and beat a serious cash bribe out of you in return for your release. And neither Dan nor I was particularly keen to see the inside of a Libyan prison cell.
Yet in spite of the risks Dan agreed with me that we needed weapons. The other issue was cost. While you could pick up an AK-47 across most of Africa for a couple of hundred dollars, for some bizarre reason it would cost you two thousand, minimum, here in Libya. As for a pistol, it was twice that kind of money—and all for a shitty Browning or Beretta that was twenty years old. Nevertheless, Dan and I were going to have to make it a priority to score some weaponry.
“Why aren’t we based at the Embassy compound, anyway?” I asked Dan. “It doesn’t make sense us being here. At least then we could support them if it all went noisy.”
Dan shrugged. “That’s how it’s specified in the contract.”
From al
l my experience of running security operations for the Americans you were collocated with them—either at their Mission, their headquarters base, or their FOB (Forward Operating Base). Billeting us outside the Benghazi Mission didn’t make any sense, but there was precious little I could do about it right now.
Tom turned up to drive us to work. He was late as usual. It bugged the hell out of Dan that the Libyans were always thirty minutes late for everything. Punctuality is a big thing for any ex-soldier, for the military hammers into you the importance of precise timekeeping. Soldiers synchronize watches before an operation for a reason: it’s so that all parts of the plan of attack can be executed to the exact same second—crucial when coordinating ground forces, supporting fire, airborne troops, air strikes, and various other assets.
On the drive to the Embassy I noticed a different bunch of militiamen on one of the street junctions. What drew my eye were the black flags they had flying from their Toyota gun trucks. In Afghanistan any forces flying the black flag—either plain black, or with white lettering emblazoned across it—were the really bad guys. They weren’t simply Taliban, who were often as not full-time farmers and part-time insurgents. The black-flag guys were die-hard Al Qaeda.
I nodded out the window. “Those black-flag guys . . .”
“They’re Shariah Brigade,” Tom cut in. “Not good. We have too many of them in Benghazi now.”
“And the black flags?” I queried. “They mean what I think they mean?”
Dan nodded. “Yeah. They’re pretty much Al Qaeda.”
I asked Dan how many of this Shariah mob there were in the city. He said that as far as he could tell they were as common as any of the other militias.
I sat back to digest this new piece of information. While the majority of the Libyan population might view us as their “liberation buddies,” these guys most certainly would not. Unless I was missing something, we had a lone American tasked with defending the entire U.S. Mission in Benghazi, and the streets were crawling with a heavily armed militia allied to Al Qaeda. I wondered how it could get any worse. The Benghazi Embassy was a disaster waiting to happen. It was an invitation to an Al Qaeda massacre and/or a kidnapping.
We arrived at the Embassy gates, and one of our local guards was actually standing duty at the barrier. Tom had been earmarked as our guard force commander, for we needed a perfect English speaker as the link between the Libyan guards and the Americans. I’d noticed him making a sneaky call on his cell phone a few minutes before we arrived. I reckoned he’d been phoning through a warning: “They’re coming; make sure someone’s outside on guard.”
In a way I could understand why he might have done so. He was trying to make the guard force—the force he would be commanding—look good. But it wasn’t working. The guard at the barrier didn’t even glance up as we walked past: he was too busy texting someone on his cell phone. All of this crap—all of it—had to stop.
We made our way through the pedestrian gate, and it was now that I got my first glimpse of what I presumed had to be one of the so-called QRF. There was a guy standing outside the QRF Villa dressed in a skintight bright yellow T-shirt, tight combat bottoms, and flip-flops, with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. He had what looked like fake Oakley shades on, and a smoldering cigarette hanging on his bottom lip.
I called over a greeting: “Salam alaikum, mate.”
The traditional Arabic Muslim greeting is “salam alaikum”—peace be unto you. The expected reply is “alaikum salam”—and unto you, peace. This guy just blanked me completely. Not a word in response.
I didn’t know it yet, but this was Mutasim, the leader of the four-man 17th February QRF. The guard force had clearly warned him that there was a new guy in town—me—and that I was trouble, hence his well-rehearsed act of snubbing me. So be it. I was up for any kind of confrontation that these kind might have on offer.
As we turned left into the dirt track leading to the TOC I caught sight of a stocky, bald-headed white guy dressed in a khaki green T-shirt and red shorts. What he was wearing was the informal uniform of the U.S. Marine Corps when doing PT, or physical training. I’d seen U.S. Marines dressed like that countless times before, when collocated on missions with them. This guy had to be the RSO.
He darted into the TOC, and a minute or so later we followed inside. He introduced himself as Lee Saunders, the Benghazi Embassy RSO. I could tell right away that he was off with us. He didn’t seem to want to talk to Dan at all, and I could barely get a word out of him myself.
Dan excused himself. “I’m going next door. I’ve got some paperwork to do.”
“Ex–U.S. Marine?” I prompted, once Dan was gone.
Lee paused for an instant. “Yeah. How d’you know?”
“PT kit.”
“Oh, right, okay. Say, about that little nonsense outside the gate—not acceptable.”
I presumed he was referring to our guards’ demonstration over their late pay, plus the graffiti. I couldn’t agree with him more—it was totally unacceptable.
“We’re on it. We’re getting rid of the bad guys, just as soon as we can get some new guys in to replace them. We’ll get it sorted.”
“Right. You’ll have to excuse me—I gotta go on a mission.”
“Yeah, no problem. Laters.”
Our chat had lasted five minutes, if that. Of course, I knew Lee had to be horrendously busy, not to mention stressed beyond measure. The poor bugger was trying to do eight people’s jobs. But I’d got not the slightest chance to raise any of my security concerns with him. More to the point, I got the strong sense that he didn’t seem to like us or to rate us much.
A few minutes later I spotted Lee in a blazer and tie, escorting a smart-looking woman toward one of the Embassy’s armored SUVs. She was around five feet eight, with long auburn hair and pale Irish looks. She was snappily dressed and seemed to be wearing not a scrap of makeup. I didn’t know the woman’s name yet, but I figured she had to be the Deputy Chief of Mission. Lee helped her into the rear of the vehicle, before taking up his place as the driver.
A figure hurried over from the direction of the QRF Villa. It was the same guy I’d seen earlier, complete with his yellow T-shirt, only now he was wearing jungle boots and a cheap and nasty chest rig of the type you’d buy from Wal-Mart. It was the sort that a teenage kid would wear, complete with oodles of ammo pouches. He went to get into the passenger seat so he could ride shotgun for Lee, with the principal—the lady diplomat—in the rear.
As he jumped in, the curved magazine of his AK-47 caught on the door frame. An instant later it had sprung off, and 7.62mm rounds were pinging all over the drive and bouncing under the vehicle. I could not believe my eyes. A mag only ever falls off an AK if you’ve failed to seat it in the housing properly. Otherwise, it’s rigidly attached to the weapon, as it needs to be to fire. A guy who didn’t know how to attach a mag properly should not have been allowed to carry a loaded weapon, let alone do so in the company of diplomats.
I watched as the yellow T-shirt guy scrabbled about on his hands and knees, trying to gather up all the spilled rounds and reload them into the empty mag. I was shaking my head in utter bewilderment: and these guys were supposed to be the QRF.
I heard a snort of derision from behind me. “What a total tosser.” It was Dan.
I turned away from the window and cracked up laughing, Dan doing the same. We didn’t want Lee to see us, for that would be disrespectful and belittling. I didn’t think for one moment that Lee had selected the 17th February Militia—as opposed to a bunch of fellow U.S. Marines—as his QRF, but someone must have done so. Whoever had recruited these idiots as the Embassy’s only permanently armed protection force had to bear some heavy responsibility.
I’d been on Dan’s back for all the problems we were experiencing here, although I hadn’t meant to be. Having a good laugh at the QRF’s expense helped unite us. We had ten interviews to do that day—potential new guard force recruits. Dan had actually got to know two of the e
xisting guards, Walid and Drizzi, pretty well. They were decent guys, and what distinguished them from the others was that they were willing to work and apply themselves. They were the first to admit that the rest of the guards were a waste of space.
The loan RSOs—Lee and his predecessor—had had zero time to get on top of the guard force, hence Blue Mountain being brought in. But without anyone pushing them, the guards had decided that it was easier to drink tea and play cards in the shade than to do what they had been hired to do—which was to patrol the compound perimeter on foot and man the guardroom and barricade.
Walid and Drizzi had put out word that we were seeking new recruits, and hence we’d got the guys in to interview. After long years working in Iraq I speak passable Arabic, and I was able to conduct the interviews in Arabic. The questions were pretty basic. Do you have any background in the military or security? How many brothers and sisters do you have, and what are their names? That question was designed so we could do an identity check against a database maintained by the Americans. What was your role in the revolution? Have you ever been abroad, and if so, where and when?
All ten of the guys seemed keen and motivated. We passed the interview forms on to the TOC so Lee could get them vetted. If all ten came back clear we’d hire the lot, and I’d be able to sack the worst of the present bunch. Truth be told, I was relishing the prospect. It would act as a warning to those who remained. There was nothing like getting rid of the worst—pour encourager les autres.
The interviews done, Dan and I did a walkabout of the perimeter. In addition to the main and rear gates, there was a third hidden away on the eastern side of the compound. That was strictly the tradesmen’s and garbage entrance. Our guard force was supposed to be split, with one on each of the three gates, one in the guardroom manning comms, one out front on the barrier, and one walking the perimeter. Amazingly, all of the guards were in position and doing their stuff. That was what just the threat of a mass sacking had achieved.
I asked Dan to draw up a list of the ten guys he most wanted gone. That way, if all ten new recruits were positively vetted we could get rid of the worst of the present bunch. Two of the ten on Dan’s list were on duty today, and I figured there was no time like the present. It made sense for me to get rid of the lot, for that way they wouldn’t blame Dan—and in three weeks I’d be gone, whereas he was contracted for the long term.
