by Damien Lewis
I shrugged. “I’ve worked with loads of chicks in the Royal Signals, mate. They’re good as gold. Often, they’re a lot better than the blokes.”
Lee laughed. “You better believe it with this one. Her name’s Rosie, and she’s got a towering reputation. She’s gonna be awesome. She’s volunteered for just about every shithole goin’—Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan. Man, she is the real deal.”
“So if anyone can kick ass, Rosie can?”
“You got it. Plus it’s a three-person team, so things are lookin’ up. It should all start to change around here.”
I relayed Lee’s words to the trainees—that the Americans would deal with any injuries or deaths they might cause at the Embassy. It was then that Mustaffa, our bearded giant of a bodybuilder, raised the million-dollar question. In a sense, all through the training this had been the elephant in the room.
“Mr. Michael, what are we to do if we are attacked by men with guns?”
“Good question. Let’s be clear about one thing: batons are about as much use as tits on fish in a firefight. I’ll speak with the RSO, but there’s no way you can be expected to fight armed attackers with batons.”
I knew the answer to Mustaffa’s question, but once again I figured I’d double-check with Lee. I put the question to him: what do my guards do if they’re hit by guys with guns?
“If we’re hit by gunmen and it’s safe for them to get out and run, that’s what they’re to do,” Lee told me. “Their only role is to raise the alarm. Once they’ve done that they cannot be expected to stand and fight an armed force. They’re to make a run for it and find the quickest route to safety.”
I relayed the instructions to my recruits. I could tell it didn’t sit easy with them. They were a guard force, but if they faced a serious attack they were to run away. I tried explaining that it was the QRF’s job to stand and fight, because they had the weapons. From the expressions on their faces, I could tell what they thought of that.
“But Mr. Michael,” big Mustaffa objected, “the QRF will be the first to turn and run.”
CHAPTER SIX
I feared that Mustaffa was right, and if the QRF were going to run we needed to be ready. Lee might well have to call us in and we’d need to be armed. For now we settled upon a makeshift compromise: Tom had an AK-47 at his house; we’d keep that with us, either in his Chrysler or at the villa, so at least then we’d have something with which to go to Lee’s aid.
The training package done, I proceeded to sack the worst of the remaining guards. Predictably, several more threatened to kill me, but at least now we had a workable force: four teams of five, standing eight-hour shifts on a 24/7 rotation. Each team had one of the newly trained guys as a supervisor—Nasir, Mustaffa, or another—giving them a positive role model to follow. Tom was overall guard force commander, and after our rough-and-tumble during the training his bad attitude seemed to have mostly gone.
Things were starting to shape up, at least compared to the mess they had been, and all in time for the arrival of Rosie and her new RSOs. As luck would have it a DHL parcel arrived the day before the new RSOs flew in—the guard force uniforms. They consisted of beige shirts and matching trousers, displaying Blue Mountain’s name and logo—a pilgrim in silhouette, carrying a staff. It came complete with matching beige desert boots, plus a black baseball cap and bomber jacket, with security emblazoned across them in white letters.
The guards loved the new gear. At least now they felt part of some kind of an official team. The afternoon before the new RSOs’ arrival Dan and I did the rounds checking all was as it should be. We had to admit the guards were unrecognizable from the rabble that we’d inherited. They looked smart, alert, and on-task.
That evening Robert phoned to let us know he too was flying in. He’d be at the airport early, and he planned to spend a couple of days with us liaising with the new RSOs. The following morning we collected him and whisked him back to the villa for a quick breakfast. From there we drove to the Embassy, and out front was one of our guards dressed in his smart uniform and ready to search our vehicle.
“Great,” Robert enthused. “Nice work, guys.”
It was good to hear him sounding so positive and upbeat, barely a week after the grenade attack by those two renegade guards.
I took him in to meet Mustaffa, who happened to be the guard force supervisor on that day’s morning shift. I tried explaining to Mustaffa that this was the boss of Blue Mountain, and that he’d flown in from Britain to see how they were coming along. I wasn’t sure if Mustaffa grasped it all, but he was smart and responsive and paying close attention, which was what mattered.
As we made our way to the TOC to meet the newly arrived RSOs, Robert commented on the obvious.
“That, mate, is a pile of shit,” he remarked, pointing out the security fence that was still under construction. “And where’s the razor wire on the exterior walls? And what’s with the vineyard, for God’s sake? You could hide a bloody army in there.”
I told him we’d tried to raise it with the RSOs, but up until now there had been the one alone, and he was insanely stressed and overworked.
“And why haven’t I seen a single armed guard?” Robert continued. “Where are they? Where are the Americans supposedly protecting this place?”
I told him there was just the one RSO, and a QRF formed from a bunch of 17th February Militia. Robert was staring at me like I had horns growing out of my head. It was a repeat performance of how I’d reacted when Dan had first told me.
“They’ve got militia acting as the QRF?” he asked, incredulously. “Tell me you are shitting me.”
We were nearing the TOC, so we switched to Welsh, just in case any of the RSOs overheard. I repeated for Robert’s benefit all that I knew: until today there had been one lone RSO, and he constituted the entire American security contingent for their Embassy in Benghazi. Other than that, the only force mandated to carry any weaponry were the four guys from the 17th February Militia, who for some inexplicable reason were the Mission’s QRF.
Robert’s eyes were popping out of his head. “But that’s totally insane. It’s like putting the lunatics in charge of the fucking asylum.”
“You got it,” I confirmed.
There wasn’t a lot more to be said. We were at the TOC and about to meet the new team. We switched back to English as Lee ushered us in, and we did the round of introductions. Rosie Stephenson and her team were dressed in the standard kind of “uniform” for people in our business: desert boots, North Face trousers, and collared shirts left hanging free, in an effort to better cope with the soaring heat.
Rosie was five feet seven, blond, and very athletic-looking. She had to be pushing fifty, and she was still strikingly attractive. Most noticeable of all was her manner, which was warm and approachable. I took an instant, instinctive liking to her. At the same time I could tell by the respect her two fellow RSOs held her in that Rosie was the business. I felt sure she would be more than capable of saying no when she had to, and that she got things done her way and the right way.
“Say, I gotta congratulate you guys on the guards,” she told us. “Those guys—they sure look the part.”
It was good to hear that.
Rosie’s deputies were Adam and Jim. While Rosie was ex-police, Adam and Jim were both ex-military, but that was where the similarity ended. Adam had served in the U.S. Air Force prior to becoming an RSO, whereas Jim was an ex-Army grunt. Pretty quickly Rosie, Lee, and Robert disappeared into an adjoining office, so they could manage the handover between them, which left Dan, Adam, Jim, and me to get acquainted.
You couldn’t have asked for two more different guys. Adam was six feet one, slim, and fit-looking, with dark hair and looks. When I told him I was Welsh—as opposed to a Brit—I expected the standard response from anyone who wasn’t from our small island nation: what the hell is Welsh? But Adam seemed to be a well-read individual. He knew that the United Kingdom was a union of England, Scotland, Northern Ireland, an
d Wales, and he seemed to know a damn sight more about British history than I did.
By contrast Jim gave the impression of being a typical quiet, tobacco-chewing farm boy. He didn’t let on about much, apart from mentioning that he’d done two tours of Iraq prior to training as an RSO. His Iraq experience was more than enough for me—that plus the build of the man. He was six two and naturally massive. As opposed to Tom, our guard force commander, Jim’s bulk was all where it should be. He had this incredible V-shaped physique, with big shoulders and chest, and I figured he had to be a bodybuilder.
“So, you work out?” I ventured.
“Should see my dad,” he spat. “He’s massive.”
I laughed. “Jesus, and you’re not!”
I explained to Jim that I and the guards had rigged up a makeshift gym in one of the outhouses, adjacent to the side gate. I’m big into weights, and if I don’t go training every day I start to go stir crazy. We didn’t have much in the way of equipment at the gym, but it was the best we could do: there was no other gym on the entire compound. Jim and I agreed to try to catch a few sessions together when we could.
Robert popped his head around the door. “Come and join us, mate. Rosie wants a word.”
I looked around for Dan. I guessed he must have popped out to use the bathroom. “Not Dan,” Robert added, switching to Welsh. “Just you.”
I made my excuses to Jim and Adam and went to join the others. I felt a bit uncomfortable with Dan not being there, especially as this was his contract, but this was what Robert had asked for. We made a bit of small talk, before Rosie asked me to run her through the grenade attack on the base. I told her the basics of what had happened, and then Lee had this to say.
“It was us who’d hired those guys, not Morgan and Dan. And now they’ve been sacked, along with all the other bad guys.”
It was good of him to volunteer that information. Lee: a top guy.
“Plus get this,” Lee added. “Morgan volunteered to stay at the mission if ever we were attacked. I knew Morgan would have stood toe-to-toe with me if the shit went down. It was good to know he was only a phone call away.”
Rosie glanced at me, warmly. “Thanks, Morgan. Thanks for making that offer. It’s appreciated.”
“It wasn’t just me. It was Dan, too. We’d both have come to Lee’s aid if he needed us.”
“That just reinforces the points I was making,” Robert interjected. “You need more security here. More boots on the ground. Proper physical security measures would help, but the key thing is having solid, reliable guys on the ground.”
Rosie nodded vigorously. “I get what you’re saying. Don’t worry, I’ll get it all in hand. I’ll be writing a full security survey of the Mission, and I’ll ask for the extra funding, manpower, and equipment we need.” She turned to me. “So, Morgan, you’ve instructed the guard force on everything as per contract? I’ll be testing them and drilling them on everything they’re supposed to know.”
“Feel free,” I confirmed. “Go ahead. They’re ready.”
“The guard force is really, really good now,” Lee volunteered. “They’re well up to speed.”
“I’m only here for three more days, anyhow,” I remarked, “but I’ll help you all I can with the drills. Then I’m gone.”
Rosie coughed, a little uncomfortably. “Well, you know, I wanted to talk about that.” She turned to Robert. “Looking over Morgan’s CV he’s the kind of guy we need here to run security. We’d like him to stay, if that’s at all possible.”
Robert nodded. “Not a problem. Morgan’s good to stay.”
Was I? It was the first I’d heard of it. I felt like I’d been set up here, but after all the fine things that Lee had said about me, how could I refuse?
Rosie looked from Robert to me, and since I didn’t object I guess she presumed we were all good. “Great. Good to have you on board.” She smiled. “But I warn you, I’m a perfectionist where security’s concerned and especially the paperwork. I need to be on top of everything and I’ll need you likewise.”
That first meeting was over pretty quickly. The new RSOs were jet-lagged, and they only had twenty-four hours before they’d be taking over for real, as Lee would be gone.
Robert and I left the meeting and took a stroll outside. “You good with that?” he asked.
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t have a lot of choice, do I?”
He laughed. We both knew I’d been set up. Robert must have known they wanted me long-term, and I guessed he’d sprung it on me like that so I didn’t have a chance to refuse. The plan now was for Dan and me to work back-to-back rotations. Shortly, Dan would be heading off on his break, leaving me to hold the fort.
Now that I was on the job long-term I did a proper walkabout of the compound with Robert. We mapped out where we needed powerful security lighting, so as to illuminate key areas at night. Ideally it would be motion-sensitive, so the lights would come on only if there was movement in the compound. We worked out which CCTV cameras were operational and which needed replacing, and where we needed more. We checked out the three gates, all of which were supposed to be operable from the TOC—so that an emergency exit could be planned and executed from there. At present the rear and side gates weren’t working.
Then I raised the one thing that was worrying me almost as much as the QRF. I pointed out a tall, towerlike building at the far end of the compound. It lay in the property opposite our own, but it was high enough so as to provide a vantage point offering visibility into just about every corner of the Mission.
“You see that?” I asked Robert.
He eyed the tower. “Couldn’t miss it. It’s bloody horrendous.”
“We can’t even erect a sniper screen, ’cause it’s not on our land.”
A sniper screen is a simple length of canvas or tarpaulin that blocks a potential sniper’s view of his target.
Robert scanned the roof. “That’s where I’d want to be if I was attacking this place. You could pick ’em all off from up there.”
“Too right. You know what I do every time I get here? I walk in the front gate, see that place, and dogleg around Villa C. That way I’m not visible from that roof for the sixty seconds it takes you to walk up the main drive. I’m vulnerable for less than five seconds doing a dogleg like that.”
“Yeah, but you can’t exactly ask the diplomats and their guests to keep doglegging, to remain out of a sniper’s line of fire!”
One of my best friends had been killed by a sniper perched on a high roof in Iraq. The gunman had put the bullet through his neck, and his head had nearly come off. He’d bled out, and there had been nothing any of us could do to save him. I’d been paranoid about snipers ever since, and I was going to do whatever it took to avoid that building.
That evening Robert, Dan, and I headed back to our villa—a place that had suddenly become much more of a permanent home for me. I’d sought out Lee to say a last goodbye, for he’d be gone by the following morning. Now that Rosie, Jim, and Adam were here Lee seemed to have let his guard down a little. I could see how utterly exhausted he was. He looked as if he was barely capable of crawling out of here. He’d been working all hours, and pretty much defenseless. But once a Marine, always a Marine: Lee wasn’t bitching.
We shook hands. “You made it, mate. You’re done. Travel safely. Semper fi.”
“Semper fi, brother. If you’re ever in the States, you look me up, y’hear. You got my details.”
I was sad to see Lee go. He was ex–Marine Corps, and you don’t get better than a Marine in terms of holding the line and putting down the rounds. But on balance, three RSOs should be a damn sight better than one.
That night Robert, Dan, and I had a simple supper of grilled chicken breast and salad. Over the past few days I’d taken on the role of doing the cooking, for Dan didn’t seem to bother much about eating. We sat in the lounge having a TV dinner when a deafening burst of gunfire tore the night apart. It sounded as if some serious weaponry was being used, an
d it sounded real close.
Robert flicked his eyes across to me and Dan. “Fuck was that?”
Dan and I shook our heads. The possibilities were endless: drunken trigger-happy guards, warring militiamen, or maybe the Shariah Brigade coming with their orange jumpsuits.
“Right, get Tom over here now with the AK and some rounds,” Robert grated. “I ain’t sitting this out without a weapon.”
I put a call through to Tom and he confirmed he was on his way. It was Robert’s first night; he was a veteran of three top Special Forces units, yet still Benghazi had him rattled. And in truth, Robert’s attitude was the right one. Maybe Dan and I had been here too long and we were getting lackadaisical.
The Benghazi night was often torn apart by gunfire—though not such sustained or heavy bursts as were hammering through the skies around the villa right now. But that didn’t mean we weren’t under threat, and especially as we ourselves were ripe for a kidnapping.
Pzzzt-pzzzt-pzzzt-pzzzt! Rounds juddered through the air, as whoever was out there unleashed on automatic. It sounded as if we had something like a PKM—a 7.62mm Russian general-purpose machine gun—firing from right outside the villa, and rounds coming back our way on what was definitely a two-way range.
Within minutes Tom was with us and we bombed up the mags for the AK. With Robert and Dan providing cover, Tom and I ventured forth to try to find out what the hell was happening. Machine-gun fire was still being traded back and forth, fingers of fiery tracer probing through the night sky. They appeared to come in slow motion at first, but as they got closer they streaked by at killer speed.
We spoke to someone who was out on the street, and it turned out to be a typical messed-up Benghazi story. Ahmed, the guy who owned the villa, was running in the upcoming local elections. The rival candidate lived in a villa several blocks away. They’d clearly decided that rather than settling it via the ballot box, they’d each have a go at blasting the other away. Ahmed was unleashing fire from a position adjacent to our villa and his rival was returning it with gusto.
